


A Long and Lonely Road

by IncreasingLight



Series: In Their Blood [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Last Flight
Genre: And what are they Wardens of, But still being revised, Courtly Love, Earthquakes, Grey Wardens, Hawke held against her will, Multi, Other Relationships to Be Added - Freeform, Red Lyrium at Weisshaupt, Unrequited Love, Varric's theory on Weisshaupt confirmed, Wardens are devious bastards, Work drafted, casual sex not explicit, griffons!, hawke goes to weisshaupt, past Genitivi/Weylon, past female Hawke/Sebastian Vael, unrequited Stroud/Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/pseuds/IncreasingLight
Summary: After the events in Kirkwall, Hawke finds herself reluctantly answering her best friend's request to help the Inquisition with what she has uncovered of Corypheus' plot.  Driven by her sense of guilt over her part in the events that took place three years prior, she arrives at Skyhold to meet the Inquisitor.Not a complete retelling of Inquisition from Hawke's POV, as it will deviate after Adamant.  Mildly AU in places, and will borrow characters from 'Last Flight' as well as Inquisition.Bioware owns the characters, and pretty much everything else.  I'm just making mud pies in the sandbox.  Updating will be sporadic.





	1. Start Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mykki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mykki/gifts).



> For Mykki, who asked.
> 
> Let that be a lesson to you. ;)
> 
> Chapter Title from Five Finger Death Punch’s ‘Remember Everything’
> 
> “If I could hold back the rain  
> Would you numb the pain  
> ‘Cause I remember everything  
> If I could help you forget  
> Would you take my regrets  
> ‘Cause I remember everything…
> 
> It all went by so fast  
> I still can‘t change the past  
> I always will remember everything  
> If we could start again  
> Would that change the end  
> We remember everything.”

This was a terrible idea.

If anyone other than Varric had asked, she would have sailed to Amaranth rather than go anywhere near this ‘Inquisition’ that he was so caught up in. Not that it was his fault, exactly, but…

But he had asked. He had asked her to come to Skyhold (of all the corny names) and talk to the newly dubbed Inquisitor, despite the fact that it was apparently swarming with Chantry representatives, Circle mages, and Templars, knowing that she was violently allergic to all of the above.

Hives were forming and she hadn‘t even finished crossing the bridge.

The guard looked the other way at the sound of her thrown rock, "What's there?“ and as he walked in the other direction to check on the source of the noise, she sighed and took advantage of his sloppy skills and gullible mind to scale the wall just inside of the portcullis. From there she snuck out into the courtyard, and up the stairs to the battlements where Varric had told her to meet him, while he gently broke the news of her continued survival to the Inquisitor and her advisors. She hoped a certain Commander choked with horror.

Well, not really. She might owe the damn Templar, and wasn’t that a horrifying thought? But his kind hadn’t made things easy for her. At least, until right until the beginning of the end. Or was it the end of the beginning? Three years hadn’t really given her any grand perspective over the events of the past. Her hindsight wasn’t even clear enough to see through, much less bring things into focus. It was like trying to see through Crestwood’s mud.

If she wasn’t careful she’d end up sounding like Flemeth. “Fate and Chance can go fuck themselves,” she muttered under her breath, feeling better immediately as she rounded the stair landing.

She crested the stairs, the mountain wind flinging her short hair wildly, and she cursed again, her eyes tracking the scouts and runners and workers automatically. Even up on the battlements this was more people than she had been around for… Maker’s Breath had it really been years?

She needed to get out more.

No one looked at her twice, too busy with their own tasks to wonder about a stranger. The entire Keep was full of people gawping blankly or sneering critically at the Inquisition’s new bastion - a woman walking with purpose and direction didn‘t even register.

The tavern looked like a happy possibility – if she didn’t have to stay incognito during her whole stay. Trust Varric to make sure the tavern was up and running even before the bridges were repaired or the main hall was free of scaffolding. She could bless every single hair on his fuzzy, prioritizing, barrel of a chest.

She hoped that the Seeker that had been plaguing Varric’s life for the last few months wouldn’t kill him when she heard - but Varric could take care of himself, with the exception of his horrible taste in women, anyway.

Not that she could talk. Her love life could serve as a cautionary tale as told by any Chantry sister. At least Varric only brought half the trouble on himself? She really shouldn’t be trusted near anyone even halfway interested in sex. But then again, that hadn’t worked out for her either. Sebastian hadn’t been, and she had still managed to screw that up.

Stupid Fucking Vael with his stupid shiny armor. Let him have his pretentious city with its fucking palace and shitty weather. She could have just about anyone for a wink and smile, and sometimes cheaper than that. And often did. It was better that way.

Hawke had been forced to be reclusive, thanks to the damn Red Templars and Wardens haunting Crestwood. She was feeling the lack of ‘company’ pretty hard at this point.

Stroud had made a couple of tentative movements in that direction, no doubt suffering himself from a lack of friendly attention that wasn’t his own hand, but the Moustache was just too much. She shuddered at the thought of letting it touch her.

What was the male fascination with facial hair? Stroud’s moustache was larger than some Orlesian lapdogs. That Blackwall that ran with the Inquisition apparently had a legendary beard - Varric‘s description in his letters had been all too thorough, almost as if he envied the furry chin. If he did, it would be the first time he had ever wanted a beard, she was certain. Varric shaved with a devotion bordering on obsession.

Speaking of Varric… her best friend waved at her from a distant landing, looking a bit too excited, really, considering the reason for her presence. “Quick, duck into the tower,” he hugged her quickly, skipping the effusions of joy in favor of shooing her in. “I’ll set you up, let you make an entrance… avoid causing a scene if anyone just happens to stroll by…” He wasn’t excited, she realized. He was nervous.

If that Seeker dared so much as touch him she would find herself pinned to the wall.

“Causing a scene? Since when have I ever cared about avoiding one of those?”

“There are a few Templars, here, Hawke. You might have noticed?”

“You said the Inquisitor supported mage rights!” Hawke had assumed she was a female version of Anders, only without magic and the partner from the Beyond, and with an entire army at her disposal.

So in other words… nothing like Anders at all. Just imagine what Anders could have done with an army. He used his friends effectively enough.

“Yeah, but some of the Templars followed Curly - the good ones. Mostly. Fellow called Rylen is great for a laugh. But we can‘t guarantee that none of them have it out for you…”

“I suppose it would be a shame to make it this far only to die at the hands of the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s blade.“ She had managed to survive, with Stroud’s help, for this long, even without Dog to keep her company - a victim of old age.

Varric shook his head, denying that fear of hers for at least the dozenth time. “Curly’s changed, Hawke. He’s left the Order. Stopped taking lyrium. The Seeker’s watching him, to see if he’s going to kick the bucket.”

“People don’t change that much. The last time I bought into that lie, a friend blew up a fucking Chantry. Remember that? So forgive me, my friend, if I‘m cautious.“

Varric had sighed, “Just stay put, will you? Don‘t run for at least a minute. She’s coming. Be here any second.” He paused, sighing with resignation, “If we’ve got to fight our way out, there’s a roof right below this landing. Only 15 feet down, so we can skip the stairs, jump to it, swing down to the ground, and make a run for the gate. Bianca‘ll have your back.“

"I adore you, Varric.  You always know exactly what I'm fretting myself silly over."

And no, it wasn’t like that.

It was just damn good to see him again. It was good to be seeing anyone again, other than the Moustache, but especially him.

A rather flat-faced woman with the dull look of Ostwick (nothing interesting ever came out of Ostwick) combined with sharp eyes approached him as Hawke watched her through the crack in the rather shoddy door. She seemed reasonable and not angry - definitely not a female version of Anders, then - and Varric beckoned her forward.

Hawke straightened and approached, trying to seem confident, unobtrusive, and street-smart, keeping her staff handy. Varric wouldn’t lead her into a trap, but she didn’t know the rest of these people, with the minor exceptions of Leliana and Cullen.

Those two, based on their behavior in Kirkwall, were definitely capable of setting a snare just for her.

People didn’t change that much.

But that’s what her Champion face was for. Combined with her armor, she was a force to be reckoned with. And Varric always had Bianca at his back. If this went pear-shaped he would have her back while they fought their way out of this damn castle. It wouldn’t be the first time they had had to beat a rapid retreat, and it wouldn’t be the last. She had already proven it wasn’t that secure.

She hoped she would get the chance to mention that little tidbit to ‘Commander’ Cullen.

It was easy enough to banter her way through the Inquisitor’s all too giddy questions until she reached the part about Corypheus.

“He _was_ dead. We stripped his body. I still have his stuff in storage back home,” she deadpanned. Varric backed her up, nodding along to her story. It was all true, for once. Not that if she chose to lie he wouldn’t back her in that, too. She had done nothing to deserve a friend like him.

She suspected that if she told the Inquisitor that she was the second coming of Andraste that Varric would start singing the Chant. Maybe make up a few extra verses that supported the promiscuity and public inebriation side of things.

She’d pay money to see that. Maybe the next time that Varric backed a losing cause. He did rather make a habit of it, didn’t he? He hadn’t done that until he met her. Probably her fault. Just like everything else.

She wrapped up her all too sad story, and waited in silence for the Inquisitor to ask the next questions. The ones everyone asked, after they had read the fucking book. And the Inquisitor had definitely read the damn book. “Where was Fenris? Was Merrill’s blood magic evil or justified? Was Carver really that much of an ass? Did you and the Prince of Starkhaven have a ‘thing‘?”

But the Inquisitor didn’t ask about her friends, only promised that she’d head out to Crestwood as soon as possible, to recover Stroud.

Hawke relaxed, ever so slightly. She wouldn’t ask about Sebastian. Thank the Maker. If only Varric hadn’t put it all in the book… but he swore the love story would sell more copies. Even if the love interest was a pretentious Chantry-loving moron with a waffling problem.

She had been drunk when she agreed, telling him that yeah, that was all true, but that he was her pretentious Chantry-loving moron. Besides, she liked waffles.

He had called her Waffles for the next two years. She deserved it.

But if theirs was a love story, then the rest of the world was doing it wrong. She sighed, and pulled herself away, peering around to make sure she wasn‘t attracting undue attention. Varric had offered his room as a place where she could hold up until the advisors were ready to speak to her - but it was across the battlements and through the main hall, the solarium, and upstairs, through the library.

Maybe she’d convince him to bring her some ale later. If she hadn’t fallen asleep. It would feel good to sleep in a bed again. The thought of a bedroll made her back start to kink and seize.

Neither of them were as young as they used to be.

She didn’t mind feeling older, but she hated feeling so fucking useless.

But maybe being here would change that.  She could only hope.

Of course, when you try to change things, things change.  Rarely did anything change for the better in the wake left by her passing.

She shivered, and denied being cold when Varric asked.

And no, it wasn't a fucking premonition.

 


	2. Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Breaking Benjamin’s ’Failure’:
> 
> ‘Drive the cloud away, we will fall from last to none  
> The dark before the dawn, the war will carry on  
> Look for the light that leads me home  
> Tired of feeling lost, tired of letting go  
> Tear the whole world down  
> Tear the whole world down  
> Tired of wasting breath, tired of nothing left  
> Failure.’

“Come on, Hawke,” Varric poured her another whiskey, and she toasted him, an increasingly rare smile on her face. “I liked that bit. Don’t tell me you’ve been telling half of Ferelden that Bianca didn’t take out the pickpocket before you could even draw your staff.”

“As if I need a staff to be deadly,“ Hawke huffed. “Varric, I had just spent a year in a mercenary company, killing people for money. He was all but dead, staff or no staff! I still think you set me up, dwarf, because you couldn’t think of another way to get my attention.” Hawke winked at her dearest friend. “Come on, admit it, you’ve got a weakness for raven-haired bad-asses.”

Varric choked, and then coughed, and Hawke nearly spilled her drink. Nearly. He recovered, “You know Bianca doesn’t tolerate wandering eyes.”

She tilted her head, wondering if someone had finally captured her best friend’s attention, but let it go. Varric’s heart belonged to Bianca and Bianca. Besides, there were practically no dwarves with the Inquisition, and Varric had a type.

Void, she hated Bianca. Not the crossbow. She had long since learned to let it be. He didn’t nag her about Vael (much), and she didn’t nag him about coldhearted Carta princesses. The one thing Varric didn’t take lying down was anyone badmouthing the woman he thought was the love of his life.

Shit, she’d do anything if she could get the damn dwarf to move on. But if standing him up at the altar didn’t do it… well, who was she to give anyone love advice? She had cussed out the only man to ever sort-of-but-not-really propose to her, and then proceeded to make his life absolutely fucking miserable until he left her for a damn city a scarce year and a half later. She had killed at least one person just to piss him off.

And killed another nearly before he asked.

She was so fucking stupid.

She had been right to turn him down. What was the point of marriage if it came with chastity? She wasn’t designed to be chaste. It was cold comfort, but comfort all the same.

She hoped Prince Vael was as cold in his lonely bed in rainy Starkhaven. Assuming he was, actually, alone. Just her luck if he had succeeded in taking back his city only to fall into bed with Flora Harriman, or some other social climbing bimbo. Speaking of bitches she hated…

But she was over it. Really.

And cows flew over Minrathous. (No, really they did, if that necromancer magister could be believed.)

Luckily one night stands didn’t have to come with forgiveness of prior not-quite-paramours. Not healthy, of course, but she wasn’t looking for healthy. Never had been.

She was looking to forget.

Unfortunate that forgetfulness wasn’t a valid option. Not when the entire reason she was here had everything to do with her stupid mistakes and fumbling with magic she didn’t fully understand.

Corypheus had stolen that line from her. Bastard plagiarizing magister. She ought to have Varric sue.

Maker, she was so stupid. She knew her Da wouldn’t have used blood magic if he didn’t have a good reason. He was a good man, and a better mage than she would ever be. And yet she had stumbled through that entire fortress releasing every seal, every safeguard he had set in place for their safety, for everyone’s safety, even after she had realized that he had bought his family’s freedom with his own blood. She had foolishly believed that she had known better, determined her course on the road to perdition with her lighthearted tendency to ‘let’s see where this path leads!’, combined with her need to understand something about her place in the world.

So many regrets. She could feel the advisors judging her during the next day‘s war meeting, some silently, some not so silently (Hello, there, Ser Cullen. Fancy meeting you here. Lovely day we’re having in the Frostbacks, wouldn’t you say? Tell me, meet any non-people lately? Quite a few, I would imagine…), as she repeated once more her tragic story.

The whole reason she had let Varric write the fucking book was so that she wouldn’t have to tell her story. The irony would never end.

He owed her five sovereigns. She would collect this time just out of spite.

Sighing, she shoved back from the table. Did the Inquisition’s diplomat have to be so… diplomatic? The woman’s calmness grated on her nerves. Did she ever lose her temper? So smoothly, the Ambassador thanked her for her forthcoming nature, ignoring Varric’s amused cough at Hawke‘s shuffling embarrassment, given her not-so-private thoughts parading across her face, and then they quickly prepared to ignore her, in favor of deciding their next step.

She wasn’t good at being ignored. Back when Varric was still trying to find a nickname that stuck, long before she became Champion, ’Limelight’ had been a viable option. “So, the upshot is, I need your Inquisitor to meet me in Crestwood.” Ser Cullen might be an ass, but he was quick on the uptake, acting on her interruption of the spymaster, and eager to make physical progress instead of bantering words over a too large table. He had a map of the area whipped out and laid before her almost before she finished her sentence. “About right here. My Warden friend is there, evading his comrades in arms.” She pointed to the overhang that hid a small cave, a little ways up from the dragon.

Should she mention the dragon? But why deprive the Inquisitor of all the fun? “The villagers are having a little trouble with undead…” she mentioned wickedly, instead of opting for full disclosure. “Might have something to do with rifts…”

Leliana nodded, her face a mask better than any Orlesian courtesan‘s. “I’ll send Scout Harding immediately. She had plenty of experience with undead in the Fallow Mire.”

Ser Cullen nodded at her in approval. That was… weird. It made her shudder, to have his approbation. Then again, not having his approval hadn’t worked out for her.

She was absolutely not going to start admitting that Templar arse was right. About anything.

With that, apparently the meeting was over. Hawke hunched her way back to Varric‘s room, hiding her height and her face behind her hair in a well-constructed slump, where he was waiting with whiskey and Wicked Grace.

Maker, she loved that dwarf. He always knew just what she needed.

It was a shame he wasn’t taller. But if he was, she would just ruin it.

 


	3. The Dark Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Drive the cloud away,  
> We will fall from last to none  
> The dark before the dawn  
> The war will carry on  
> Look for the light that leads me home.”  
> From Breaking Benjamin’s ‘Failure’

Once back on the road, as one of the few people walking away from Skyhold rather than towards, she let herself relax a little bit. Crestwood was several days out by foot, dodging settlements and traveling hard.

Traveling hard was her default setting these days. Even without Dog she could manage in the wilderness for ages, navigating by the stars and the moss on the trees, if necessary, and electrocuting unwary animals for meals. She wouldn’t be held up by the Inquisitor’s advisors arranging for advance scouts of the area, or by wagons traveling at a slow crawl with the supplies meant to keep the noble, gently raised, Herald of Andraste comfy and dry.

She would arrive, slink into the cave, and wait with Stroud and the Moustache, until the Inquisitor showed up and figured out that her advisors had cut Hawke off too quickly to explain about the other ‘issues’ the people here were dealing with - or at least until she got sick of the Moustache‘s fidgeting.

It wasn’t like the Herald would get fucking anywhere without running into a hundred undead, at least twenty Red Templars, and a handful of half-assed bandits. Not to mention the rift under the lake, the wyvern nest in the hills, and the dragon.

She smiled idly, remembering the dragon. She fell asleep wondering how the All-Touched Herald would deal with that little surprise, the petty side of her momentarily appeased at the thought of the woman who had had everything come so easy for her stymied at the giant lizard in her path.

Of course, if the Inquisitor asked, she’d fight it herself. She could use a little fun.

<LLR>

Four days later, she had pulled back into the outskirts of what Crestwood called ‘town‘, using a secret pass over the hills to keep from having to waltz through the main square and thus avoiding the attention of every single resurrected soul in the area. Who was she to deprive the Inquisitor of the honor of being a fucking hero to all of Crestwood? She had been there, done that, and had the armor.

She was rather fond of the armor, actually. The more beat up it got, the more badass it made her look.

It was a pretty harsh lesson to teach the hard way, but the Inquisitor looked like a scholar, not a fighter. Plump arms, ink stained fingers (rather like Varric’s actually - with callouses that were from holding quills, not weapons), and a round face that had obviously never known what it was to be hungry and lacked a single defining scar. Of course, she also had an ass that screamed to be spanked… but Hawke knew better than to try to go there. Lady Trevelyan wasn’t her type. She didn’t go for educated, prissy nobles dedicated to service to the Maker.

Most of the time. One person was an outlier, not a pattern.

Vael didn’t count, dammit.

Perhaps she’d better stay away from Lady Trevelyan after all. Just in case.

Of course her ‘preferences’ battling with her libido was why she was also standing out here in the remnants of the rain (at least it was finally clearing up) rather than going into the cave, where Stroud no doubt waited. He was the same sort - educated, younger son - one who no doubt expected to end up as something better than Blighted and hearing a fucking archdemon singing in his head night and day.

She was being unfair. Stroud was a decent man. The Moustache wasn’t decent, but perhaps she shouldn’t judge a man by his facial hair…

Her reverie ended abruptly by the sign of the Inquisitor mounting the hill. Blinking, she tried to school her shock. How had she managed to get here so quickly?

Upon being greeted, she found herself admitting, “I just got here myself.”

The Herald nodded, as if she had expected that. “Run into trouble?”

“No, I just… had to avoid people. Can‘t travel the roads. Draws attention that I can‘t afford,” she found herself explaining. “You?”

“I’ve been here quite a while,” the woman laughed at her. Unnerving, that. “The rift in the lake was something else. Varric nearly pissed himself going after it. I had no idea he didn‘t like caves. I‘ll avoid them after this, when he‘s along. I promise, I‘ll take care of him. You don‘t need to worry.”

Just how long had she been in Crestwood? Had she left without the cushy supplies? She noted belatedly that the Inquisitor was splashed with demon goo, covered with mud up to her knees, and that… had she stepped in wyvern dung? Ugh, that smell was unmistakable.

Perhaps her initial assessment of the Herald of Andraste had been premature. “Where is my favorite dwarf?”

She snorted, “Back at Caer Bronach, telling stories over the ongoing card games. Nothing for the scouts to do until we’ve restored enough stability that travelers start moving through the area. He’s earned a break anyway. Shit, Hawke, that bloody rift spawned something like four times before I could close it!”

“You took Caer Bronach?” Hawke grinned to cover her ongoing case of shock at the Herald of Andraste‘s casual curses. “Tell me I can move in. If I have to spend another fucking day in this cave…” with the Moustache, she wanted to finish, but looking at one of the Inquisitor‘s companions, she decided not to mention overwhelming facial hair. That had to be the other Warden Varric had mentioned. Sweet Maker, his description hadn’t done the Beard justice.

The Herald had blinked, “Of course. You and Stroud both. The Wardens have left the area already. I was hoping we’d travel back to Skyhold together… it’s a lot faster with horses. You know how to ride, right? We should be ready to go in a couple of days. I just have to kill a wyvern first, and read the reports on the dragon.” Her face lit up with excitement, “Did you know about the dragon?!”

Hawke nodded, her face carefully blank. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had ridden a fucking horse. Before Kirkwall, definitely. Maybe the Inquisition wasn’t so bad, if she wasn‘t going to have to walk everywhere... “So… about the dragon…”

“I have a plan,” the Inquisitor cut her off with a smile, and her face transformed, making her almost lovely. “But it’ll take time - and I suspect my advisors will try to stop me. Don’t worry, I’ll handle their arguments. In the meantime, drinks at the Rusted Horn? On the Inquisition, of course. Bull‘s sulking over ale because I told him ‘Not yet.’ We might as well join him.”

“Inquisitor, if you reopened the tavern, I‘ll follow you anywhere,” Hawke grinned far too roguishly to suit an apostate mage, “Especially if the coin of the faithful is buying.”

“We’ll collect Varric on the way, naturally.”

“He‘d never forgive me if I made him miss a party.”

 


	4. Check Me Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, you can’t get a witness  
> To testify about all the kisses  
> When it’s gone you know you’re gonna miss this  
> At least you’ll check, check me off your wish list.”  
> From Daya’s ‘Legendary’

With difficulty, Hawke refrained from scorching the wall of the so-called War Room. For once it was nothing that the Inquisition’s perpetually disagreeing advisors had said. It was the news Stroud had about Adamant, that the Grey Wardens were sacrificing their own people to fuel a hopeless cause in the Western Approach…

“Why is it always blood magic?” She realized belatedly that she had said that out loud, when Ser Cullen actually coughed a small laugh into his ever-present gloves, letting go of the damned sword for half a minute to accomplish it.

He always held the hilt of his sword in her presence. She doubted he even realized he was doing it, the prejudiced bastard.

But he had laughed. Didn’t want to, but he had laughed. At one of her jokes. And his face hadn’t shattered into pieces either. She shook her thoughts free. People were surprising her too much lately. Probably came of spending too much time alone. “I’ll leave for the Western Approach tomorrow then.”

And that look… the nug-humping bastard actually looked respectful. “We appreciate your help,” he nodded. “This time… would you take a horse? The forward scouts get the first pick of the horses. You certainly qualify, Champion.”

Why did they keep trying to offer her a horse? And was Ser Cullen trying to make nice with her?

Still, she might as well take them up on their offer. She wasn’t getting much else out of the deal, after all.

<LLR>

Varric insisted on getting her drunk that night in the tavern. Real alcohol, not just watered ale, and cards, and _people_ , lovely fucking people that looked like they wanted to talk to her.

She might have died and reached the Golden City. It couldn’t be better than this, unless they were back in the Hanged Man with Nora fending off some hopeless drunkard in the background and ‘Bela trying to convince them to buy into some farfetched ‘business venture’ that was actually her getting another boat to add to her fleet.

Varric only winked when she took some star-struck scout back to her own room - a Maker-damned room, with a bed, and blankets, and fucking sheets - ‘to get to know him better‘. She hadn’t slept so well in ages.

The scout was gone by morning, and in the rush of pulling everything together, she forgot to say goodbye. But just as well, honestly. Two ships, passing in the night, nothing fucking romantic about it. She hoped it had been as good for him as her. If she remembered his name, she would have left him a note, even. You never know - she might get to come back through Skyhold. Nice to have someone to - talk to - if that happened.

Varric probably knew his name. But she didn’t ask.

She had asked Varric to come with her, but he had hesitated, eyeing the Seeker across the room before turning her down. Interesting… but she wasn’t going to hold her breath. Probably the Pentaghast had something hard on him and he couldn’t talk about it in front of her. She wouldn’t want to cross her. They called them Seekers of Truth for a reason.

She had no desire to piss her off.

Even if The Champion of Kirkwall Marian Hawke versus Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast would be a battle for the ages. Varric wouldn’t know which way to bet. Maker, that would almost make it worth it, wouldn’t it?

But, to her credit, she started for the Western Approach with a double handful of forward scouts and the Moustache instead of picking a fight. Maybe she was actually growing up.

Where was the fun in that?

The scouts were all chatting pleasantly about the Qunari warrior that ran with the Inquisitor. She listened with interest, regretting slightly that her stay hadn’t managed to last long enough for an introduction. Pity. She’d done enough riding lately to appreciate the idea of riding the Bull. Or maybe his second - now there was a cute ‘Vint. Probably wasn’t afraid of magic, either. ’Vints wouldn’t be, would they? Wouldn’t mind showing him a thing or two about sparks…

But it’s not like she particularly wanted to fall into the bed with one of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle of cronies. She had learned that lesson the hard way. You don’t sleep with friends - and that should probably also include friends of friends. Whatever ‘Bela claimed, there were hard feelings. And not the good kind.

A week into their trip, the Requisition Officer proved to have talents of her own, as well as a firm desire for nothing permanent. Better yet, she didn’t have to bring it up herself.

All to the better, she reminded herself, rolling over and curling into her bedroll long after the other woman had departed. This way, she had nothing to lose. If she started getting attached, the demons would sit up and pay attention, and even her sleep would be disturbed by the fucking things. Her waking hours were bad enough.

The closer they got to Adamant, the more that happened anyway. She woke up panting away her stifled screams, night after night, with her mother’s dead lips telling her how proud she was of her, or Bethany warping into a darkspawn and attacking as viciously as she had been meek in life, or the Prince of Stupidhaven stabbing her in the heart while Justice, glowing and invincible with Anders‘ face showing between the bright blue cracks, held her down. The dreams echoed in her brain and murdered any chance of real rest.

After the dream about Bethany, she brought it up to the Moustache. “Stroud, are you having bad dreams? Because I just had this bizarre dream about my dead sister becoming darkspawn, and…”

Stroud looked at her in horror, and then out at the predawn light, “We should keep moving. We don‘t have much time.” His hands shook as they broke camp that day.

She was getting really fucking tired of people changing the subject. Just because she wasn’t educated in the fucking Circle didn’t mean she didn’t know Fear demons when they fucking tried to convince her that they were her dead mother, her not-a-lover, or Bethy. Justice, however, might have been Justice. Impossible to tell for sure. He was the only one that felt right. And Justice holding her down while her not-a-lover stabbed her sounded like something she might deserve.

She switched tents to one alone for a few days while she thought. There were plenty of demons coming through the rifts, but none of them were Fear demons. Unusual, that. Varric said that Terror demons were a silver a dozen in the Hinterlands, and that Fear demons were rarer, but that they had encountered a few here and there in Ferelden. In an area as large as the Western Approach, with this many rifts… they should be seeing them. The Veil was thinner than a nug’s nose hair out here. Not surprising. The ground was seeped with ages of blood.

Instead, the only one she saw was in the Fade. That in itself was suspicious, and troubling. What was keeping them away? Not that she could get anyone to listen to her when she brought it up.

Nobody wants to talk about their nightmares. Especially to an apostate mage.

Even the Inquisition, with all their forward thinking, still thought mages were just one bad day away from abominations, it seemed.

They received news that the Inquisitor expected to meet them at the temple within the next day. Just as soon as she got settled into the newly reclaimed Griffon Wing.

Hawke cursed at the not-so-brief note in the Inquisitor‘s own hand, “Fucking Nughumper, Stroud, the Inquisitor’s taken another Keep. This one from the Venatori! What are we, her lucky charms? I‘m beginning to think she sends us in to loosen up the locals so that she can swoop in and take over everything. What‘s she aiming for, world domination?”

The Moustache didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Pity. Another drawback, and another reason she would never fall into bed with him. “More likely that they need the strategic location to advance on Adamant, if we’re right and that‘s where the Wardens are massing. She‘s merely thinking ahead. Intelligent.”

Hawke sighed, disappointed. “Well, she’ll be here tomorrow. Hope she brings the ‘Vint necromancer. I want him to show me some of his tricks.” Stroud just humphed impersonally, and Hawke gave up. “As scintillating as this conversation is, my friend, I’d better get some shut eye. Bright and early wake up call tomorrow!”

“Good night,” Stroud said far too seriously, and stroked the Moustache lovingly.

Hawke resisted a shudder at the affectionate nature of the touch. No one should love their hair that much. Even Varric didn‘t love the Chesthair that way. “Hey, if she does bring the ‘Vint, maybe you can compare grooming techniques,” she fired at him over her shoulder. “He’s got quite the hairlip himself.”

Of course, of all the jokes she had made over the years, that had been the one to make him chuckle.

She needed a drink. Maybe once they met up with the Herald, they could move into Griffon Wing and Varric would set up something.

She could always hope.

 


	5. Here for the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know I’m here for the party  
> And I ain’t leaving till they throw me out  
> Gonna have a little fun gonna get me some  
> You know I’m here, I’m here for the party.”  
> Gretchen Wilson’s ‘Here for the Party’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this chapter for Andraste's Asta before I decided to handle this section of that story through letters. But it finally fits here. Yay!
> 
> Also, extra chapter today, because I'm recovering from a stomach bug and I'm bored. BORED. Please leave me some comments so I'm less bored. Or I'll post a third chapter or do something else drastic. You don't want that.

She hadn’t even brought Varric. Instantly, Hawke was once again convinced that the Inquisitor, despite evidence to the contrary, was some sort of idiot. When you went into trouble, you took the trusty dwarf. No questions asked. It didn’t matter whether you were fighting dragons, Templars, Blood Mages, demons, Venatori, Carta, bandits, the Qun, or your friends and family, you took him and Bianca along. Most days, they were all you could depend on.

She confronted her, confused, “Where’s Varric?” She peered over her shoulder, expecting the man to come bounding out of a tent at the sound of her voice, stomping his feet into his boots in his excitement to see her.

“I left him at Skyhold,” she frowned, “I’m sorry, were you expecting… You did ask me to keep him safe. Adamant isn‘t likely to be anything of the sort…”

“Nah, its fine,” she tried to act as if she wasn’t disappointed. “No doubt he’ll get some work done, letters written…” Had she asked her to leave him behind? If she had, she’d probably been drinking. She didn’t get maudlin unless there was whiskey involved. “He’s best left out of it. Say ‘hi’, though, next time you send a letter back?”

“Of course, but you could write him too. Use the ravens, if you like. It‘s what they‘re there for. The scouts have parchment.” The Herald grinned, and held out a bottle. “Found this in a ruin a couple of days back. Care to have a go?”

Hawke reached out and took the bottle, whistling, “Shit, West Hills Brandy? Talk about a taste of home! How’d that get to the Western Approach?”

“No idea,” the Inquisitor shrugged. “But I, for one, wouldn’t mind forgetting all the places I have sand that shouldn’t. Bet Dorian and Bull would be in, too.”

“Now we’re talking,” Hawke could have sighed with joy. “All we need is a set of cards…”

“Diamondback?” Bull grunted, walking up.

Hawke’s shoulders relaxed fully. “Perfect.”

The Qunari and the Necromancer retired early, Hawke thought, but her and the Inquisitor - Asta, she had been told firmly when she called her Lady Trevelyan one too many times - bonded a bit over alcohol.

“I don’t know,” Asta pouted, “the book made it shound like you two were alwaysh about to jump each other. I figured when I read it that Varric was presherving your reputations, or reshpecting your privacy when he always faded to black rather than get into the details… s‘not like he spared details in Swords and Shields…”

Hawke’s brandy went up her nose, and her eyes poured with the burn. It took her a few minutes to recover enough to reply. “Maker, the day Varric respects my privacy or tries to preserve my reputation, much less Vael’s, is the day I order his funeral pyre. Trust me, there was no jumping, mores the pity. I would remember something like that.” And perhaps she wouldn’t still be hung up on the bastard, her brain added not-so-helpfully.

“That’sh very shad,” the Inquisitor sighed, and poured another mugful of brandy. It was her third. “Love’s nice.”

“Yeah? I wouldn‘t know, having never been there,” Hawke grinned like a skull, and drank away the lie, preparing a deflection. “I hear you and Ser Cullen Tightpants are…”

“Yeah,” Asta’s eyes glinted in memory. “We are. Or… we were before I left. Kinda got a late start. Was a little… busy,” she got a dreamy look in her eye. “He’s really… nice.” Her eyes glazed over for a moment. “Hey… what did he look like, when he was still wearing the Templar armor? You know, back in Kirkwall?”

Hawke snorted into her own mug, trying to ignore the moans coming from the tent behind her, where the ‘Vint and the Bull were having a cultural exchange of the best kind. A sudden squeal made her and Asta meet each other’s eyes and they started laughing at the same second.

“Keep it down!” The Beard yelled. “Some of us are trying to sleep!”

There was a flash that left the afterglow of a silence rune on Hawke‘s retinas, and an abrupt quiet from the shaking tent. Asta sniggered, covering her mouth. Hawke smirked back, and then stared off at the edge of the desert before answering her question. “Honestly? Not my type. Templars and me… we never get along. No point eyeing them up for potential if you aren’t into shackles and smiting.”

Asta hummed at the thought, and Hawke blinked. The Inquisitor was definitely not someone to underestimate. “Don’ know. I’d try it… once. Only time I‘ve ever been in shackles, it was Cassh that put me there.” She flushed, and giggled drunkenly. “Not like that.”

The Seeker took that moment to walk by in her self-appointed watch of the perimeter, and her disgusted noise at the Inquisitor’s comment was a work of art.

“Yeah, right,” snorted Hawke, perhaps not as quietly as she could have been. “Though I bet she’d go for it. Not so uptight, I think. So… her and Varric, maybe?” It hadn’t escaped her notice that the Seeker had black hair and definitely qualified as a bad-ass.

“Shhh,” Asta hissed, finger over her lips, off center and tilted. “Don’t tell. Even they don’t know yet. Don’t think anyway. Don‘t wanna jinxsh it.”

“Varric loves to be bossed around,” mused Hawke, still a little loudly. “Bet it would work. If he ever gets his head out of… nevermind. That’s his story, not mine.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. “If not Brother Sebastian… you and Ishabela?” grinned the Inquisitor after a minute. “Or was it Andersh?”

“Not Anders,” Hawke winked, wondering for about half a second if Cullen would share. Andraste’s Herald was full of surprises. No one ever asked about her and ‘Bela. Varric hadn’t even hinted at their misguided night together. “But ‘Bela…” she whistled. “Dangerous curves. Trouble on two legs. So much fun.” She shook her head, firmly telling herself ‘no‘. She wasn’t in such dire need of a bedmate to seduce someone with a direct line to Andraste.

She got into enough trouble with the Chantry much less adding the Prophet‘s disapproval on top like a cherry on a tiny cake.

“I knew it,” Asta hissed, and tipped sideways into a sand dune. “Shtars are shpinning. Dizzy.” She reached up and traced lazy whorls in the sky.

Hawke sighed. Too drunk anyway, even if she wasn’t taken. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember this conversation the next day. “Maybe you’d better get to bed, then. Big day, tomorrow. All those blood mages and demons... Wait…” she stopped short, “Is it Monday?!”

“Yup,” giggled a bleary-eyed Inquisitor. “Probably. Not next watch yet, ish it?”

“Shit, a Tuesday, and we’re both gonna be fucking hung over, and your other mage is barely gonna be able to walk,” snickered Hawke. “This is gonna be a fucking disaster.”

“Jusht ‘nother Tueshday,” Asta protested. “Tueshdaysh are the worsht! No ma’er what! Liquor helps!”

“Right,” Hawke sighed and tugged her upright again by the wrist. “On that we fucking agree. Better plan on taking the Seeker though. She looks like she’s too uptight to get hung over. Bull‘s probably made of Stormheart. Doubt he ever has a day after.”

“Bull’sh made of Dawnshtone, ashually. Likes the pink. Is pretty.“ Asta leaned in slowly, and almost tipped over, “She reads his romances.” She enunciated very clearly. Her eyes twinkled. “You know… _his_. Shwords and Shields.”

“No…” Hawke’s smile spread slowly. “Does he know?!”

“Yup,” Asta pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Told him. He‘s writing one for her.”

“Oh, you are trouble,” Hawke replied with admiration. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

“You do that,” Asta grinned, and then drifted slowly sideways, and started snoring.

 


	6. Replaced by Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to think that the day would never come  
> I’d see delight in the shape of the morning sun  
> My morning sun is the drug that brings me near  
> To the childhood I lost, replaced by fear.”  
> From Anberlin’s ‘True Faith’

Adamant was a waking nightmare. Appropriate, really.

She did her part, taking out demon after demon, and felt the Veil rip a little more with every death. She realized after the first dozen that even if they won, it was all just a massive baited trap - the Warden Commander and her pet Venatori (or was it the other way around?) needed the deaths to occur, so that the Veil would tear, and the demons - or one particular demon, larger than anything any of them had ever seen - would come through. It was pressing, even now, at the Veil - thin as a spider web. She could only hope the Veil had the strength of the same thread.

That no one else had noticed - well, what the fuck were the rebel mages teaching nowadays? She snorted to herself, and slew another demon. Probably how to best cook rabbit over magical flame without turning it into a torch. Learning survival skills had likely been more important than any lesson in the arcane. Still - they could fight now, instead of cower like the Circle mages they had been. That was an improvement. They had had plenty of practice to get this far.

She stopped, breathing a little heavily, catching her breath. She wasn’t even sure that the Inquisitor had realized that they were all having nightmares. But… it wasn’t her place to say. Probably. She could always bring it up after they stopped this madness…

A single demon shrieked behind her, and she took the blade on her staff and lifted to spear it without even looking, feeling the ichor spray over the back of her neck. “Terror,” she observed aloud, and then spun back into her macabre dance of death, swinging the staff around her hips.

“Watch this,” Dorian grinned at her, and flared his hands, to direct several fallen soldiers towards the enemy still standing. The flashy necromancer was her first sign that the Inquisitor was fighting at her side.

“Get the Pride demons! Your soldiers are overwhelmed!” she shouted in her direction, while she grappled with Rage.

“Guard the soldiers!” Asta yelled back, and disappeared immediately in a cloud of stealth powder. So… not completely useless then. She was skilled enough to know when to disappear.

Hawke felt the walls creak beneath her as yet another volley from the Commander’s precious trebuchets came into contact with the fortress. She focused, and pressed on, her own body count raising higher and higher, and wishing she had Varric to keep count with her.

_How many have you got, Hawke?_ She asked herself in his voice, and laughed aloud.

He was with her anyway. She would survive this, and they would get a drink back at Skyhold, and she would tell him that she had missed Bianca, and inflate her death count by fifty - at least - and he’d take notes…

The dragon flew overhead, and her eyes went wide. It… it was just as they had claimed. Corypheus had a fucking archdemon. She dispatched her current opponent, and ran after it. This was it. She was going to atone for her mistakes. Once and for all…

Suddenly survival seemed a lot less likely. “Sorry, Varric,” she whispered, and ran on.

Her path coincided with the Inquisitor’s elite fighting force and the Moustache, as they ended up in the courtyard, and then ran on with her after that damned Clarel fled to chase the archdemon. After pulling yet another Pride demon through the rift, naturally.

“Better late than never to realize that your fucking priorities are skewed, I suppose,” Hawke observed aloud bitterly, to Warden Blackwall‘s slight chuckle.

As Asta left Stroud behind to guide the Wardens’ surrender and kill the latest Pride demon. Hawke scanned the people still with them and cursed. The Inquisitor, in her Andraste-given wisdom, had left behind the Beard _and_ the Moustache. How were they supposed to know how to kill a fucking archdemon if they didn’t have a Warden with them? Were they supposed to count on Clarel seeing the light?

What good would a Qunari warrior, a elven apostate, and a former Chantry sister be? On the other hand, the Seeker was a Pentaghast. A dragon hunter would be handy.

For all her book learning, the Inquisitor wasn’t exactly a forward thinker. But Hawke pressed on, all the same. She was good at thinking on her feet. That dragon was fucking dead.

Maybe the Inquisition would let her have the head to hang above the fireplace in Amell House. She needed to replace that creepy mask. A dragon skull would be perfect. She could hang baubles on it’s horns at Satinalia.

Despite all the plans the Inquisitor’s pretty Commander had hatched, this wasn’t one of the best, just the only one that they had. It ended with that Erimond asshole eaten like he fucking deserved, and Clarel and the lot of them fell into a rift, opened by the Inquisitor.

A rift into the fucking Fade. Because her life wasn’t confusing enough already. “I think the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom.”

Her equilibrium was shaken, of course, for about… ten minutes? Most of the time had been taken up with trying to figure out how to stop standing sideways on a wall and get her head right side up.

Right side up apparently was relative. Only the Maker-be-damned elf found that ‘fascinating‘. He waxed on and on, until Hawke was considering a blood sacrifice just on general principle.

Hawke snorted, staring at the glowing spirit thing that had taken the face of the last Divine. She hadn’t been fooled. Of course, she was probably one of the only people in Adamant that didn’t hold up the late Divine as a holy martyr. There was quite enough of that going around in mage circles about Anders’ ‘sacrifice’ already. Martyrs were overrated.

She made martyrs. She didn’t worship them. Dying was easy - it came in a single moment, and most of the time the person dying didn’t even notice.

It was harder to live.

Her mother was the exception. And this Fear demon - he _knew._ He knew that the blame for her mother’s death rested firmly on her own shoulders. It weighed her down and she struggled to move, to fight the fear demon that ruled this portion of the Fade. He was using her memories… and he didn’t get to do that.

She shouted at him, “LEAVE HER ALONE!” A view of Bethany, crooked and broken, raising as undead and staggering towards her shattered into a million fucking pieces as she flared her fire from above and consumed everything around her. She turned back to her mother, still wobbling towards her for a fumbling embrace, and gave her mercy, right through her chest with the blade of her staff, and her mother… her mother thanked her. “I’ve always been proud…”

Hawke’s gasping sob shuddered through her body and she fell into the muddied emerald waters swirling around her ankles as the demon dissolved. “Mother…” she wept, and the Iron Bull, even while still shaking off his own nightmares, lifted her up onto her feet. “Mother, I’m so sorry.”

“You okay, Basalit-An?”

Hawke shivered out a sigh, her body too cold for comfort, but warming now that the Fear and Despair demons were dead. She hadn’t even noticed the Despair that the Iron Bull had been battling. Shit. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” She shivered, and snarked, “At least I kept my head?” And then the biggest fucking spider she had ever seen crawled out from beyond the rocks behind him. She backed away involuntarily. “I take that back. I am definitely not okay. And neither are you. Turn around. Slowly.”

To the Bull’s credit, he obeyed.

“Fucking demon,” Bull’s rumbling growl didn’t fool her in the least. He was shaking so hard she could feel him from a foot away.

“Go, run!” The Inquisitor demanded. “I’ll hold it off.” Hawke snorted.

“Really?  You?!”

Even with Varric’s imagined criticisms echoing in her ear… _You’ve done enough, Hawke… let someone else…_ she heard herself volunteer to stay behind, to take on the demon alone, knowing it would kill her. Hadn’t she had earned a break? Death would be restful, after what had become of her life. What did she have to live for?

The Inquisitor would barely be a mouthful for the thing. She, on the other hand, would fight every step of the way to a hero's death.

And who knows?  Maybe this was the abyss Flemeth had spoken of so many years ago.  Maybe it was time to leap at last and see whether or not it gave her wings.

But the Inquisitor shoved her out of the rift by force, in favor of leaving Clarel behind. The only bald Warden - and in her disoriented Despair-demon-influenced state that actually made sense. Perhaps the lack of hair made her more worthy of achieving death.

She would shave her head, if it would help.

She fell back out onto her knees into reality, and was helped aside, the Commander’s broken eyes, circled with purple, refocused immediately on the rift, as, Hawke noted in shock, what had to be the love of his life fell into his arms, babbled something that was no doubt endearing, and promptly passed out.

No one had ever looked at her like that. She had never been comfortable enough in anyone’s arms, never felt safe enough, to faint dead away with relief.

It was the worst part of the entire day, and that said a fucking lot, watching the Commander abandon his post in favor of seeing his Inquisitor treated for her trauma and injuries, and knowing, deep in her soul, that she would never have that.

She was tired of being alone. She was tired of being the Champion everyone depended on. She was so very fucking tired.

She had to get away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting more of these for the next few days, because I'm dealing with a stomach bug and I'm miserable and bored, and also because it would be nice if I could get most of the story posted before I go into the spoilers of it in 'Asta's After'.
> 
> So I apologize for what seems like spamming a good portion of the fic. Posting too fast means I miss out on the comments, but I can't even play video games as the motion makes me feel sick right now. But I can type. I need the distraction.


	7. Gonna Miss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I bought my ticket for the long way ‘round  
> Two bottles whisky for the way  
> And I sure would like some sweet company,  
> And I’m leaving tomorrow, whatta ya say.When I’m gone, when I’m gone  
> You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.  
> You’re gonna miss me by my hair, you’re gonna miss me everywhere,  
> You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
> 
> From ‘You’re Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone’

Her life sucked. Shame that the Inquisitor hadn’t had the guts to end it for her.

That might have been why, in retrospect, she started drinking with the Beard on the way back to Skyhold. He was a nice guy. She was due a nice guy. The Wardens they traveled with respected him, and if he shied away from their company… well, it was nice to see someone that didn’t think that the world revolved around himself.

There were enough people like that in the world already. Like the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Hey, Beard,” she smiled sultrily at him, and she watched him react. She still had it. “I’ve got a grudge match going with a bottle of Starkhaven whiskey. Wanna share the bounty?” The bottle sloshed - already about a third gone. “Between the two of us, we could probably wipe it out.”

“I’d take some of that,” he laughed, and climbed up into a wagon with her, after tying their horses so that they’d follow along. (Maker’s Breath, traveling by horse was so fast compared to hiking everywhere…) “Haven’t had anything that good since I won the Melee.”

“I should have known you’d be a jock,” she had laughed, and purposefully nudged him with her hip, sliding a little closer on purpose. “You took the Melee, huh?”

“Years and years ago,” he muttered, as if he was embarrassed by it. “Took all comers, with a little help from a friend. Before I joined the Wardens.”

“Of course,” she handed him the bottle and he took a swig. “I’ve never been to the Grand Tournament.”

“You’ve never been…” he blinked at her. “You’re the Champion of Kirkwall and you’ve never been to the…” she shook her head. “Then we should find something else to talk about, I guess.” He rumbled, the Beard tilting as his lips - nicely shaped lips - formed a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

“Oh, I bet we can find something we have in common,” Hawke had purred, and lifted her eyebrows.

“I’m sure we can, milady.”

<LLR>

Perhaps she shouldn’t have slept with him. Hindsight being clairvoyant, and all that, but Blackwall certainly wasn’t the clingy type.

Fuck, he had kissed her hand the next morning, called her ‘milady’ again, hoped they could do it again soon, and gone with her to breakfast, as if by accident instead of plan, laughing the whole time. Didn’t that make a nice change from her string of one night stands? And the Beard… well, the Beard hadn’t been that bad. A little raspy, but not… unpleasant. The whole man was a surprise. Starting with his tongue. He claimed a lesbian elf had taught him. With peaches as an object lesson. And he had the wisdom to follow up with something more substantial after dissolving her into a mass of quivering goo.

Much more substantial. There was a great deal to be said for the warrior type.

Yes, Blackwall was definitely a pleasant surprise. And she enjoyed that surprise all the way back to Skyhold.

Not that she was going to let herself get used to it. That way lay dragons, and not the fun kind. But they both knew that there were no strings attached. She wasn’t sticking around.  She even turned down a room of her own, in favor of sharing with Varric for the short duration of her stay.

Still, she was a little distracted during the war meeting at the end of the trip, what with the Warden in question electing to stand next to her. It was unfortunate that she hadn’t noticed what the Inquisitor and Ser Cullen had been up to on the journey. During the council, she got the wake up call she needed, however, with the Inquisitor and the Commander making sheep’s eyes at each other, because the Inquisitor was sporting…

Oh fuck, was that a Maker-be-damned _ring_? Because… shit. When Ser Cullen wanted something, he went after it, didn’t he? All it took was his lady love tipping into the Fade to bring out the confidence, apparently.

She didn’t want to think about why that made her so fucking angry.

She had to get away. The whole Keep was buzzing with the news, and even Varric was too busy settling bets to get drunk with her. Some blighted Orlesians were already ordering their wedding clothes. They were at war, and the Orlesians were planning a party.

Just like them, actually. Why was she so surprised?

“I’ll go to Weisshaupt, report to my superiors about Corypheus,” Stroud said before she could say it first, just as stoic as always, the Moustache twitching with a life of its own.

“I’ll go with him,” Hawke volunteered. Varric flinched and eyed her closely, but left it alone until they left the meeting a few minutes later. “Oh, come on, you could come with me! It’ll be fun… there‘s nothing like a roadtrip!”

“Nah,” Varric sighed, and kicked a table leg as they passed it. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna see things through here.”

Hawke hesitated, “Varric, if you’ve got a reason to stick around, I’d love to hear it. The Seeker drug you kicking and screaming into this situation. If she has something on you… I can take her.”

“Nah, it’s nothing like that, just… I can do some good here. Weisshaupt, I’d just be in the way. This way, you can stroll out of there easy as anything, with explosions behind you…” Varric stopped. “Look, Hawke, I… you know you could stay here, right? Asta likes you. She’d find a place, something that suits you, you wouldn’t have to run. The Venatori are going to be on your ass the entire way to Weisshaupt. You know that.”

“Someone should watch my ass. It’s a nice ass, and worthy of appreciation. The Moustache isn‘t allowed.”

“This isn’t about Choir Boy, is it? Look, Hawke, you turned him down… it‘s not like you to be jealous. Asta‘s got a load of crap on her plate. If her and Curly can find a little happiness…”

“Excuse me?” Her recoil needed some work. “Varric, you don’t mention Sebastian, and I don’t make you talk about Bianca. Don’t change the rules on me now.” She swallowed the taste of his name - yep, still bitter. “And I’m not jealous. I’m not the commitment type.  'Commander' Cullen can have my share.”

“Right, forget I said anything.” His forehead was wrinkled tight, and for the first time Hawke wondered if she aged him. “I’ll… I’ll send a message to Junior. You’d never ask him, and it’d be a good idea for you to have some extra muscle on the way. Stroud is good, but all that chivalric prancing around is going to drive you nuts after a while. You’re better off with Carver bashing heads in with his greatsword. You know how to work around that. Should I find out if Broody or Daisy is free? Rivaini is busy being somebody important, but…”

“I’ve been on my own for years, Varric. Go ahead, let Carver know, if Aveline needs a break from him… but… keep Merrill safe.”

Varric retrieved a couple of maps, climbing into the too-tall chair to roll them out.

“You’d think the Inquisition could afford to outfit a dwarf’s room with the appropriate size furniture.”

“I didn’t bother to ask. Take this route,” he instructed, pointing to a lesser road headed West and North. “I’ll have my people leave you supplies in the marked drop locations, all right? That’ll keep you moving - so you stay two steps in front of the Venatori. Leave me letters in the same places, so I know where and when you get there in case you need to be bailed out. You remember the trail signs and passwords, don’t you? None of ‘em have changed… Don’t go fighting any dragons just to prove how bad-ass you are, and don’t…”

“Yes, Da,” Hawke sassed. “I’ll be home by ten bells, and won’t show anyone my smallclothes…”

“Damn it, Hawke,” Varric pressed his lips together. “Don’t make light of this. You don’t just… stroll up to Weisshaupt, knock and say, ’Hello, I used to be the Champion of Kirkwall. I’m with the Inquisition now, and we suspect your Wardens are hearing a false Calling, and, oh, by the way, they’ve been slaughtering each other and sacrificed the Divine Justinia to summon demons and crack open the fucking sky. You might want to look into that.’ You know after the Vimmarks that they have some nasty connection with the Carta…”

“And you don’t?” Hawke countered laughing, “That’s why I have the Moustache, Varric. He’ll get it through their heads when I can’t. I‘m just going along for the ride.”

“If that’s the case, then why won’t you just stay here? Be an agent for the Inquisition…”

Hawke snorted at him, “Me, take orders? From ’Commander’ Cullen? Let him give me ’sanction to engage’ the Inquisition‘s enemies? Varric, do you know me at all? Look, your Inquisitor isn’t a complete arse, if prissy and unable to hold her liquor. Cullen is greatly improved, I’ll give you that for nothing. But… this isn’t a place I fit long term. If I stay, they’ll drag me along to every peace talk and public event, and I’ll have to tell my story again and again and again until…”

“I get it,” Varric sighed. “You’re better off away from here. But I’m writing to Broody. If he can spare his time from wiping out slavers…”

“No,” Hawke reached out her hand to his. “Just Carver. We… we Hawkes need to get some answers from Weisshaupt about Da, Varric. This might be our one chance to find out why they needed him, specifically, to lock Corypheus away.”

“Then at least take a couple horses,” Varric sighed, and quirked his mouth up into a reluctant smile. “From what I hear, Hero wouldn’t mind a good-bye kiss, either… since you‘re heading to the stables and all. Or a little bit more than that, if you‘re so inclined.”

Hawke grinned, “I wouldn’t mind one either, actually. It was fun.”

“I’ll thank Sera for filling me in on your activities on the way back from Adamant.  She deserves some credit for being accurate. But don’t worry, you’re not breaking a heart there. Hero gets around. Though he had a pretty great time with you, to hear Buttercup tell it. He might miss you a bit.”

“Good to know, not that I was worried. I am pretty fucking incredible all around.” Hawke rolled up the maps and slipped them into her saddlebag. “I’ll be in touch, Varric.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Varric pulled her into a hug. “I’ve heard that before. Be careful, will you?”

“I’m always careful.” Hawke let him go to grab a jug of some sort of liquor out from under her bed. “Don’t wait up, Da.”

“You make some really bad choices, you know that?”

“And you love me anyway.”

"Maker help all of us that claim to do so."

"I do make it difficult occasionally." Varric's snort was the last thing she heard as she left for the stables.

 


	8. My Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I put my armor on, show you how strong I am  
> I put my armor on, show you that I am  
> I’m unstoppable  
> I’m a Porsche with no brakes  
> I’m invincible  
> Yeah, I win every single game  
> I’m so powerful  
> I don’t need batteries to play  
> I’m so confident, yeah,  
> I’m unstoppable today.”
> 
> -From Sia's 'Unstoppable'

A couple months later, somewhere in the Anderfels, the Moustache was irritating her again, and her good-bye ’kiss’ with the Warden was just a faint, if happy, memory. The afterglow hadn‘t lasted. “Can’t you just… trim it? Or better yet, shave?”

“Why?” Stroud stroked it self-consciously. “Is it looking shabby?”

“Nevermind,” Hawke stared out at the road blankly from where she sat at the entrance of yet another cave. “Are you sure the letter said…”

“It said here, in a few days time, but was dated a few days ago,” Stroud confirmed. “Your brother should arrive shortly. Are you worried for him… the last few Venatori didn‘t give us a problem, but he is alone.”

“No,” Hawke sighed, and turned away. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? He can take care of himself, I know it and he knows it. You don’t want the story, Stroud. I don‘t want the Moustache to get damp and stringy with your tears.”

“What else are we going to talk about?” The Moustache twitched, and so did Hawke’s hands. Perhaps, in the dead of night, while he slept, she could take her dagger to the blasted thing and shave it off… “You hate talking about your adventures. I had to ask Varric to tell me the story of Corypheus. All you would say was that he was definitely dead.”

“Fine.“ Hawke huffed, and gave in. “I left Carver behind to take care of Mother while I went to the Deep Roads. She begged me not to take him. I gave in. When I, the unrepentant apostate mage, returned, having made our fortunes several times over, he had fucking joined the Templar Order. Out of spite because I left him behind.”

“Oh, that is… is that all?” the Moustache quivered. “He is your only family?”

“Yes.” Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Then you should reconcile.”

Hawke snorted, “Did you miss the part where I‘m an apostate mage and my brother joined the Templars?”

“My whole family was killed while I was enrolled in the Academie, victims of the Great Game,” Stroud observed. “My brother and I were never close, but I assure you, reconciliation is something I wish I had the opportunity to pursue.”

“Look, when you meet Carver, you’ll understand. Nobody gets along with Carver. The chip on his shoulder is the size of the Nightmare demon I met in the Fade.” Hawke paused, “So… did I tell you about the Nightmare demon I met in the Fade? Because - damn. That thing was big.” Stroud groaned, and walked away. Hawke smirked. “I knew he was sick of the story,” she muttered to herself. “I do so talk about my adventures.”

By her account, she should be able to dine off that one for the rest of her life.

Carver arrived the next morning, riding up looking far better than she had ever looked on a borrowed horse. She suspected he knew. “Sister.”

“Brother,” Hawke couldn’t help but mock.

“Sacre Coeur de l’Andraste,” Stroud cursed, and shoved her out towards him. “Embrace him. He is your brother. You Fereldans are so stiff and impersonal. One would think you didn‘t care for each other at all!”

“Yeah, sis, I’m your brother. Is that any way to say ’hello’ after we haven’t seen each other for…”

“He doesn’t care for me. Don’t let him fool you,” Hawke wrapped her arms around him awkwardly. Hugging him felt wrong. “There, family weirdness accomplished. Happy, Stroud?” She pulled back, all business, folding her arms across her chest. “So… Varric fill you in on why we’re doing this?”

“The basics, I guess? We get to tell Weisshaupt that their Wardens have gone loony and are hearing Callings anywhere and everywhere, and that they were responsible for cracking the sky open like an hardboiled egg on your forehead. Hopefully they‘ll be happy enough to tell us exactly why Da was the key to Corypheus‘ prison. Got a letters for you from Varric and Aveline,” Carver looked at her a second time before he handed them over. “Sis, you look like shit.”

“Yeah, falling into the Fade will do that to you. Nightmare demon. Haven‘t slept well since.”

“She barely eats, as well. And drinks too much.”

“Fuck you, Stroud. And your Moustache.”

“Is that an offer?” Hawke flipped him both off, “You should not speak so to your brother. He is concerned for your welfare.”

“I like you, Stroud. You‘re nice. My sister never did appreciate anyone but bad boys. Except for the chantry brother, of course… but even he didn‘t last.  Mother had her hopes up and everything.”

"...a Chantry brother?  Hawke seduced a Chantry brother?"

Hawke flinched, even though Carver hadn‘t said his name. “Kill me now, before you two start bonding. We‘re out of alcohol and I can‘t stand it,” she grumbled, refusing to look at the critical eyes of her friend, choosing to open the first of her letters instead.  There was no point defending herself. 

 

_Hawke,_

_I’m not going to ask what sort of mess you’ve landed yourself in this time, because Varric has already filled me in. There’s no point in telling you ‘Don’t’. Or to be careful._

_Your former Chantry brother has been causing quite a bit of trouble here. The Inquisition helped us repel him, if you hadn’t heard. Mostly Varric’s doing, I understand, as well as Ser Cullen‘s. We owe them. Their army swatted his ass and set him in his corner in Starkhaven. From what I hear, he’s still pouting. I think I liked him better as a Brother. You didn’t do him any favors by encouraging him to abandon his vows. But the choice was his, in the end, I suppose._

_Otherwise we’re all well. I’ve forbade Isabela from entering Kirkwall, but that’s nothing new. She’ll find her way back to the Hanged Man, and I’ll have to start all over again. But even the Carta are quiet for the moment._

_Considering the disasters we’ve yet to clean up from, I should be more relieved. Instead, I worry.  You know why, Hawke._

_Take care, and I hope you find what you’re looking for._

_I remain your friend,_

_Aveline_

 

The second letter was thicker, not surprisingly. Aveline was always a woman of few words.  Varric... wasn't.

 

_Dear Hawke,_

_I know what you’re going to say. “Thank you, you paragon of dwarf-hood and Chest Hair, for sending me my brother, safe and sound and suitable for standing in front of squishy mages.” You’re welcome. Now that the pleasantries are over with, a word of advice:_

_Let Stroud do the talking when he gets to Weisshaupt. Wardens don’t share well with others. Between your need to poke around in other people’s business and their desire to keep theirs to themselves, something’s going to have to give. My odds are on them doing the giving, because you’re a force of nature. Be gentle, will you? They might heal fast, but they’re probably tender underneath. You don’t want to bruise them. We’ll need them, come the next Blight._

_That said, I want to see the explosions from Skyhold when you leave Weisshaupt. I’m counting on you._

_Had a drink with Hero the other night, and he was in a bad state of mind. Hope I didn’t steer you wrong there. He was out-brooding Broody. Told me some horrible story of childhood experiences and… well, I’m sort of glad that you’re there and not here. He’s working through something. You don’t need the baggage. Travel light for once?_

_Adamant’s aftermath is still rocking Southern Thedas. Half of the Inquisition is pissed that the Inky gave the Wardens another chance, and the other half have their heads screwed on straight. Seeker’s one of the one who’s pissed. No surprises there, I guess, since she's always pissed at something.  Usually me. Try to convince Weisshaupt that they might need to take a stand, will you? I hate to turn you into some kind of ambassador, but the story I’m getting out of the Adamant Wardens isn’t pretty._

_I’ll keep writing if you write back. For every three letters I’ve sent I’ve gotten two sentences, Hawke. You can do better than that. If you wrote letters as much as you kill people I’d be buried in paper. Some of us are worried about you, Waffles. Even Curly’s asked if I’ve heard from you recently. Ain’t that sweet of him?_

_Tell Stroud that the engagement is still on, and that he is running out of time to win this bet. Sparkler’s strutting around like its him wearing the ring. ‘Course that might have something to do with a big grey guy that goes by Bull._

_We’re heading out into the Dales soon. I’ll try to keep you posted. Information is a valuable currency, and you could use a little leverage, where you’re headed._

_Leave some Venatori and demons for the rest of us. Otherwise we might get bored settling a civil war and all that.  Keep your eye out for rifts._

_See ya around, hopefully soon,_

_Varric_

 

Reluctantly, Hawke stood and went back in the cave for her bags, her mind and stomach churning. “All right. That’s done. You’re here, so let’s go already before the Venatori catch up to us again. How many days until we reach Weisshaupt, Stroud?”

“A week, if we can avoid altercations.”

“There’s no fun in avoiding altercations,” Hawke protested. “Do you think we could double back for a while, take out a few more groups of Venatori?”

“Absolutely not.” Stroud exchanged a glance with Carver. “Has she always been like this?”

"Mostly.”

 


	9. Run Away! Run Away!

Weisshaupt rose out of the earth, eerie and white, cut out of the cliffs in stark relief, and Hawke shuddered. “Something the matter?” Carver asked, and Hawke wondered if he actually cared or was just making small talk.

“I’m just wondering - it looks like it’s easy enough to get in, but how do you get out?” Hawke pitched it low, as if she were worried about being overheard.

“Don’t say things like that,” Carver looked distinctly queasy, white around his lips.

“I prefer to have at least two options for retreat,” Hawke continued, frowning. “Ones that don’t involve falling over the edge of so-called stairs to my certain death, or shimmying down a ledge with my fingers. Or growing wings. Damn Flemeth and her refusal to teach me how to turn into a dragon anyway.” Carver shuddered.

Stroud stared, “You wanted the Witch of the Wilds to turn you into… Hawke, you are insane.”

“Not turn me into, teach. I wanted to learn how… hypothetically that would involve being able to turn back… not that it ever moved beyond the hypothetical. Maker, being a dragon would be fucking amazing…”

Carver cleared his throat, interrupting, “I have rope. And a chain. We could lower ourselves on either… or both.”

“Good, let’s go with that,” Hawke squinted at the stairs. “That will probably get us there, if we hang off and fall. Not fast, not safe, but a better option than getting trapped…”

Stroud chuckled, “And that, my friends, is why Weisshaupt has never been taken. There is only one way in…”

“Deliveries must be a bitch,” Hawke said rudely. “Skyhold is positively cosmopolitan compared to this… isolation. And they struggle. Varric has to bribe his messengers to deliver up there.”

“It is problematic,” admitted Stroud. “The dwarves and mages designed facilities for growing food… but Weisshaupt has to ration things like candles. No one wants to keep bees in a fortress for the wax. There are no Warden beekeepers.”

Carver snorted, “Darkspawn bees. Now that’s a nightmare.”

“Wasps would be worse.” All three shivered.

“Where do you get the money to pay for things that have to be imported? The Wardens aren‘t exactly flush these days, are they?”

“The Chamberlain of the Grey sees to the day to day operations of Weisshaupt. I do not know the details.”

It took several long hours to make the climb up the switchbacks, with hollows worn in every step, and Carver insisting on standing as close to the mountain itself as possible, his bulky frame inhibiting everyone else‘s movement.

“Oh, is ickle bitty Carver scared of heights?” She wasn’t sweet as she shoved past him for the millionth time. “Hang back if you can’t keep a normal pace, will you?”

“Fuck off, or I’ll…”

“Can’t swing a greatsword at all up here, Carver. You’d overbalance. Even if heights had a head you could crush with one. Guess this is one fear you can‘t fight.”

“Shut up, or… I’ll tell Varric about Isabela!”

“Oh please, as if he doesn’t know? We tell each other everything. He was there to pick up the pieces the morning after.” Varric was always there to pick up the pieces. Until now… she shoved her emotions down firmly. No point in missing him.

Carver’s face fell, “It wasn’t in the book.”

“He didn’t put everything in the book.” The climb was arduous, but not taxing enough that they couldn’t banter. “He was trying to sell copies, not tell the truth. He’s a businessman first, I had my running away to fund, and I‘m still paying Orana to take care of Amell House because she has no place else to go. People depend on me.” Too many people, to her way of thinking.

Stroud strolled slightly ahead of her, ambling along easily, leading his horse. “So… this Isabela, would I like her, Hawke?”

Carver stopped dead, “Wait, you two aren‘t together? You aren‘t just being circumspect because I‘m hanging around?”

“No!” Hawke shuddered.

“Despite my best efforts, we are not,” Stroud confessed with a sigh. “I have all but given up. I fear she doesn’t like my…”

“It’s all the fucking hair on his upper lip,” muttered Hawke irritably, kicking at a rock. It fell off the edge, and bounced, all the way down, and into the packed red dirt far below.

“Figures. I actually like you. I never like anyone she hooks up with. And the hair… it is a bit much, mate,” Carver said, with a tone of apology. “I killed Kocari rats at Ostagar smaller than…”

Stroud frowned, “But Blackwall’s beard didn’t…”

“Not the same thing, as it turns out,” Hawke laughed. “Stroud, I don’t fuck friends. And you are my friend. That same Isabela taught me that lesson.” She stopped and observed him, “You’d love her. She’d love you. It would be a mutual love fest. She‘d dig the Moustache. The three of you should meet up sometime. Nothing like a menage a trois.”

“Isabela loves everyone,” Carver observed wryly, looking straight up instead of down.

“Better not be everyone,” Hawke spun back around on the stairs to face him. “That’s way too much family togetherness, Carver Hawke.”

“Serve you right if I had,” sighed Carver. “But… no. She told me I had to grow up first. Then she‘d teach me a few things. I haven‘t seen her since… and Aveline has warned her to stay out of Kirkwall.”

Stroud chortled. “She sounds spirited.”

“She’s a Raider Admiral. ’Spirited’ is a massive understatement at best, and insulting at worst. And I shouldn‘t have to tell you not to fuck pirates, though everyone makes that mistake with ‘Bela at least once, even the Viscount‘s seneschal. Keep a mage healer handy, if you ever run into her,” Hawke grinned, and collapsed onto a bench staring upward. She leaned over to look down at the way they came. Carver cursed and backed up against the mountain wall. “Maker’s Breath, Stroud, the only way Weisshaupt will ever be taken is if they give their invaders pee breaks.” Carver frowned away his desire to laugh. “So… does the fortress connect into the Deep Roads?”

“I cannot say,” Stroud’s face firmed, the lighthearted nature of the banter gone. “Forgive me, my friend.”

Hawke frowned, “I meant no offense.” The question had been a mood-killer, though, and they ascended in near silence after that.

It was an hour later Stroud knocked at the small door set inside the larger portals.

“Warden Stroud reporting. I believe I am the last Senior Warden remaining based out of Orlais. I have crucial information to report to the First Warden.”

“And who’s them, then?” The dwarven doorkeeper squinted suspiciously, and Marian put on her Champion smile, as bright as any debutante she had ever met.

“She is the Champion of Kirkwall, and her brother,” Carver rolled his eyes at the excuse of his presence, “Marian and Carver Hawke. They have information you need to hear.”

The name didn’t even get a blink. Apparently Weisshaupt was accustomed to greeting heroes, “Well, all right then. Guess they can come in. For now.”

The entrance hall was large and airy - not what Hawke was expecting at all from the outside, though she hid her natural awed reaction. Her brother was uninhibited enough for both of them. Carver gawked like a Fereldan in Val Royeaux, spinning slowly and gaping up at the columns and high ceilings. “This isn’t what I expected.” The whole place was gilded, if somewhat run down from age - and far more empty than Hawke would have expected. “So much space…”

“Wait ‘ere,” the doorkeeper instructed, and the dwarf wandered away sullenly.

“Let me do the talking,” Stroud instructed quickly. “Please.”

Hawke eyed him, “Why so nervy, Stroud?” Varric’s advice ran through her head.

“Weisshaupt is not full of innocents,” he stressed, stroking the Moustache in a manner that looked more like he would pull out the hairs than tidy it to make a good impression. “And there… there should be more of us here. How many have been lost to the Calling? Let me gently pry for information first.”

“Whatever you say,” Hawke shrugged. “The spotlight’s yours, my friend.”

“The Chamberlain’ll see you,” the doorkeeper muttered in their general direction, and led them over to the appropriate door. “Right in ‘ere.” The portal slammed after them, echoing.

“And that’s not ominous at all,” Hawke’s fingers itched for her staff. “Carver…”

“I‘m with you.”

“At least they let us keep our weapons…”

“Not that you need one.”

“Shhh…” Hawke hissed.

“Everyone fucking knows you‘re a mage, Sis. Remember the book?”

“Stay on guard,” Stroud rested his hand on his sword gently, but wandered forward. “Chamberlain,” he bowed.

“You have news for us,” the Chamberlain seemed eager, too eager, and Hawke exchanged a look with her brother. “What is happening in Orlais? It has been months since I heard from Warden Commander Clarel… is she well?”

“Where are all my brothers and sisters?” Stroud asked gently. “My news affects all Wardens, and I need to inform the First Warden. Personally, if possible.”

The Chamberlain closed his eyes. “The First Warden is… not here. And too many of our brothers chose to answer their Callings.”

“Sacre Coeur de l’Andraste,” Stroud breathed. “All of them?”

“Not all, but too many,” the man opened his eyes and they saw the worry and sadness there, as well as the dreamy look that suggested that the Chamberlain was hearing his own Calling. Stroud looked like that too often for comfort. “Tell me you know why. We have a volunteer group of mages from the Circle at Hossberg that have made… discoveries, but nothing that would explain why, exactly, so many of us are hearing…”

“It is a darkspawn, calling himself Corypheus,” Stroud explained, tragedy in his eyes. “He claims to be the ‘Conductor’ from the Chant…”

“The Hawke killed Corypheus,” the Chamberlain argued immediately. “She killed…”

Hawke twitched at the name. Only the Carta had ever referred to her like… what was the connection? The urge to flee the fortress intensified.

But then she would have no answers.

“He was working with Warden Commander Clarel,” countered Stroud, interrupting her thought, “trying to raise a demon army - to march into the Deep Roads and defeat the last archdemons on their own soil. I assure you, he is quite alive.” He narrowed his eyes, and even Carver was surprised at the amount of menace that was injected into his voice, “And since Hawke found him in a Warden prison, locked away with _her father‘s blood_ , as requested by the Wardens, I suspect you know all that.” He drew his sword immediately, and Hawke and Carver echoed his movement. “End this farce!”

“It is no farce!” The Chamberlain swallowed, holding up his hands. “Wards degrade, Warden. The Hawke - Malcolm Hawke,” he corrected, with a glance at the two younger Hawkes, “was… hired, by my predecessor, when we felt the chains weakening on our ancient enemy.”

That matched with what they knew, but it wasn‘t the whole story. “Why was our father…” Hawke demanded, letting a flame sprout in her hand.

“Hawke….“ Stroud hissed at her. “Do not threaten the Chamberlain of the Grey!”

“I was told it had to be someone ‘of the blood’,” the Chamberlain backed away. “The Hawke - Malcolm Hawke - was the closest we could find - and the only one that we could induce to work for us. The only one who was both a mage and who wanted something bad enough to commit to the task. His reward was our backing of his freedom from the Circle in Kirkwall. I have no further knowledge. Warden secrets have been kept too well… with every death, we have lost more information.”

“Whose blood do we carry, that makes us so important?” Hawke asked, and received no answer.

Stroud snarled at him, “All this secrecy has backed you into a corner, has it? And now all of Orlais, all of Thedas, is in danger of falling under the shadow!”

Hawke stifled an inappropriate snigger. Stroud took himself far too seriously. “The shadow, Stroud? Really?”

“And what else could we do? Tell the world that the magisters are imprisoned beneath Thedas? That the stories are true, that we can’t kill them…” the Chamberlain slumped and shook his defeated head.

“So the Inquisition will fail,” Stroud lowered his sword slowly.

“It is very likely,” sighed the man. “As I said, we have taken in a few mages from the fallen Circles, they seek an answer in the library and archives but their recent discoveries have been,” and oddly he smiled, “have been in other areas.” His face grew more stern. “Come, my brother, I will show you. Not all my news is horrific. You…” he frowned at the Hawkes, “You will remain here. This does not concern you.”

Stroud was escorted out, and Hawke started scouting the room, looking for other exits, and mentally mapping the area, opening the door to the main hall and making notes of the number of doors and archways going to different areas of the fortress. Carver sat down on the stairs to the dais, sheathing his sword. “Sit down, Sis. You’re making me twitchy.”

“Tough. ’The Hawke’, Carver. You know what that means. We’re not safe here. And I would bet whatever he’s ‘showing’ Stroud right now isn’t healthy for us, either.”

“We’re never safe. Our whole lives have been spent running, thanks to…”

“Thanks to me, and Bethy, and father,” Hawke said, checking behind the huge chair and finding a chest. It was locked. “Shit, and us without a rogue. Maker, I miss Varric‘s lockpicks,” she sighed, and lifted up a few of the tapestries - all depicting various heroic looking Wardens swooping around on griffons, naturally. “There’s another door back here,” she announced, and pushed. “It’s open. That‘s… I wonder where it goes?”

“Great. That‘s how we got into this mess,” Carver deadpanned, “so, dear Sister… are we taking door number two, and abandoning your friend?”

“Abandoning…” Hawke shook her head, “Carver, don’t be a tit. He’s a Warden. They won’t hurt their own.” She realized the fallacy of her words as soon as they left her mouth.

“Right,” Carver snickered, “So that whole ‘summoning a demon army thing with the blood of our warriors’ was a massive misunderstanding? Last I checked, Stroud was a warrior. You sure the Chamberlain isn‘t in on the plan, and Stroud won‘t come back a corpse or brainwashed?”

Hawke cleared her throat, “Good point.” She sighed, shoulders slumping.

“You’re still the boss, Sis, as much as I hate to admit it. Do we make a run for it now, or later?”

“We haven’t got our answers yet. You can’t get rid of Hawkes that easily. We‘ll wait for Stroud, and storm the gates in reverse after we hear what he has to say.”

“Leaving us open to be picked off by boiling oil, or arrows, or something more sinister by far as we drop over the scary cliff with only a rope and a chain to aid us.”

“Now you’re getting it.”  Hawke tried to smile.  "Nothing like an adventure."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter title is a Monty Python reference. Be thankful that there aren't more of them. I've been listening to Spamalot's soundtrack.


	10. Quite a Surprise

Stroud reentered the room with a stunned look on his face considerably later. “My apologies for the wait,” he cleared his throat. “That was… illuminating.”

“Care to share?” Hawke was sharpening the blade on her staff now, and eyeing him blandly.

“I hardly know where to begin,” Stroud actually laughed, stroking the Moustache.

“Well, you’re not calling me ‘The Hawke’, so I’m assuming you aren’t under the control of a darkspawn magister,” she stood. “So… can we leave?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Chamberlain had rejoined them. “We have many questions for you, Hawke.”

“Crap,” Carver muttered, and reached for his sword as she spread her fingers in preparation to throw a fireball, staff in her left hand. “Sis…”

“Hear him out!” Stroud leapt in front of her before she could fire off a spell. “It’s only questions, my friend…”

“I don’t trust Wardens,” she spat on the floor. “That’s how I ended up in this mess, isn’t it?”

“But you trust me?” Stroud searched her face and relaxed, slightly. “You do, don’t you?”

“Mostly,” Hawke admitted. “You can’t spend months upon months hanging out in caves with a person‘s Moustache without figuring out if it’s trustworthy.”

“Then hear him out. It‘s only a few questions, my friend.”

Hawke lowered her staff - not that she needed it - and nodded. “Fine. I refuse to tell the whole damn story, though. Let‘s stick to the crucial points, shall we?”

Several hours, and a small meal later, the Chamberlain was satisfied for the time being. “So Anders was… affected by Corypheus, even then?” This seemed to excite him.

“You might say that. He was extremely unhappy that I dragged him along, that‘s for sure. He kept saying he heard voices. He was even more upset when we assured him we didn‘t hear a damn thing.”

Carver snorted, “You might say that. If I remember correctly, he threatened never to speak to you again if you ever dragged him underground again.”

“I kept that promise,” Hawke said sadly. “Not even into a cave on the Wounded Coast.” The Wardens cleared their throats, sensing the awkwardness in the air. “Well, that was that, anyway. Anders went all - helpless against Corypheus, while I did my damnedest to take him down, and Carver did a fucking good job being a meat shield.” She deftly avoided mentioning the rest of her friends, not wanting to draw the gaze of Weisshaupt on any of them. “We killed him dead, stripped his body…”

The Chamberlain cleared his throat, “About that - that staff you carry…”

“No, I didn’t get a staff off of him, and no, this staff was my father’s,” Hawke threw back at him. Only half the answers were lies. Not bad, really. “You can’t have it. Period.”

The Chamberlain narrowed his eyes. “I see. Did you find a different staff? We have reason to believe that it might be… important to the Warden’s cause.”

“Back in Kirkwall, locked up tighter than a nug’s arse.” Stroud chuckled in appreciation of her metaphor. “My best friend designed my vault. Nobody’s getting in there without a key.”  She resisted the temptation to draw said staff.

“Probably,” muttered Carver. “You did show ‘Bela how it worked.”

“Shh. Don’t show our hand.” She smiled blandly at the Chamberlain. “Any other questions?”

The Chamberlain picked up his knife and played with it idly, “How much do you know about the politics of the Anderfels?”

Hawke faceplanted into the table, a paragon of grace. “I make a strict policy about never discussing politics unless I have had at least three intoxicating beverages. I escaped being Viscount of Kirkwall by” she raised two fingers, a scarce hair apart, “this much. I hate the whole subject. No politics. I beg you.”

Carver jumped in instead, “Your First Warden rules in all but name, doesn’t he? The King has a single city…”

Stroud shook his head violently at Carver in warning. The Chamberlain frowned, “That’s not how it is. There are more darkspawn in the Anderfels than anywhere else in Thedas. We provide the people protection from the ongoing threat and in turn the Wardens are granted certain privileges… the Wardens act as a law keeping force here.”

“Right…” drawled Hawke, lifting her head, unable to resist the bait. “Look, I’m not from around here. I don’t really care whatever your First Warden has going with the King that gives him his power. They could be boinking each other like rabbits in every back room, for all I care. If they are, good on them. With the darkspawn threat as bad as you say it is, they probably need the stress relief.” The Chamberlain made a pained noise, but Stroud snorted. Carver shook silently. “That’s their business. What I care about is that one of your little pet magisters escaped his cage - with my unwitting assistance, I admit, though if some Warden had swanned up to me before I left home and said, ‘Oh, by the way, your Da locked the monster up for a reason, Hawke, you might want to just kill all the Carta you see and then leave well enough alone,’ I might have actually done it!”

Carver muttered into his mug. “Unlikely.” Hawke glared at him, over her arm, “Sister, you never know when to leave well enough alone. Ever. ‘Let‘s see where this path leads!’” He mocked.

The Moustache was definitely amused now, twitching wildly. “Oh, just laugh already, I‘ll like you all the better for it,” Hawke told it. She sat up again and faced the Warden, “So what happens now? Are we free to leave? We’ve warned you, and all that…”

“I’d rather have you say and tell the First Warden what you’ve told me,” admitted the Chamberlain, twisting his napkin in his lap. “It’s impossible to say when he’ll return, but…”

“I‘m not going to hang out waiting for him. The Inquisition is fixing my messes while I‘m gone. I pay my debts.” Hawke pushed back her chair. “Thanks for the memories, Chamberlain, but Stroud and I really must…”

“I’m staying,” Stroud told her bluntly. “May I have the honor of showing the Champion why, Chamberlain?”

The Chamberlain frowned, “Only Wardens know about the…”

“I thought you said that Circle mages made the initial discovery?” Hawke leapt to the logical conclusion with the grace of a hundred hallas. “Or are we talking about a different super-special secret?”

The Chamberlain frowned even deeper, but rose, “Allow me, then.”

He led them all out of the dining hall and through a large courtyard tiled with green mosaics, and then up a wide flight of slightly dilapidated stairs to… “What is that smell?” Carver asked, his lip curling.

Hawke didn’t find it unpleasant, but… “Blessed Andraste on a piece of flatbread,” she cursed in awe as the Chamberlain swung open the door. “What are… they can‘t be…”

Several smallish, squirming, downy bundles were writhing in makeshift nests in various stalls while a selection of Wardens and mages cared for them. A few were gathered into a pile in the middle of the room, being groomed. One of the creatures squawked a warning at their entrance, and the people tending them turned to look at them in wide-eyed.

“You must not get many visitors,” Hawke hid her own shock, only gripping the doorframe a little too tightly. Not bad considering that those were… “Those are…”

“Griffons,” the Chamberlain spoke with an air of great satisfaction. “The mages I spoke of found the last living griffons. Preserved by magic for all these ages.”

A lanky, attractive elven girl stood slowly, “Chamberlain…”

“These are our latest guests, Valya,” the Chamberlain said with an air of authority that had been lacking before. “I know you worry about outside knowledge, but I think we can trust the Champion of Kirkwall, don’t you? She‘s going to help you with your primary project.”

Hawke slumped against the wall, ignoring the Chamberlain’s incorrect assumptions, and repeated, “Griffons. Everyone knows griffons are…”

“Were extinct,” the elven girl corrected precisely.

“How?!” That question came from Carver, as Hawke was still gawking blankly at the little balls of down.

“I need a drink,” Hawke stammered. “I need to be drunk for this.” She stumbled backward towards the stairs, miscalculating and ending up bumping into a stall door. “Maybe I’m hallucinating? Was there blood lotus in my lunch? I haven‘t smoked elfroot since Lothering…” She swallowed, “This might be a great time to start up again.”

A very young human girl - she couldn’t be eighteen - was eying Carver deliberately, and rose as if to set her assets - namely a large pair of breasts - off to advantage. Carver averted his eyes - such a gentleman, Hawke sniggered mentally - and she pouted. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked him directly, ignoring Hawke entirely.

“Berrith,” the girl named Valya scolded. She frowned at the Chamberlain, and then shifted her eyes to Carver deliberately. “You’re a Templar, aren‘t you?”

“I was. A while ago.” An blond elven man lifted his head and watched Valya, as if… worried. “I’m nothing of the sort now. Part-time Guardsman in Kirkwall, that‘s all.”

Valya nodded crisply. “Very well. Come and see the griffons,” she smiled in belated welcome, and if the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, Hawke couldn’t blame her. It had been a very long time since her own smiles had lit up her face. And this mage was a Circle mage if Hawke had ever seen one. In these days, no mage had much reason for happiness.

She didn’t know anything about how Hossberg’s Circle had fallen, mores the pity.

She followed the woman, letting her eyes scan the aerie and other occupants, and frowned at one in particular, hunched over a portable desk and scribbling madly. His face looked familiar, but she couldn‘t quite place it…

Stroud choked, “Brother Ferdinand Genitivi?” The face slotted into place, as if with a solid thunk of a thick tome onto a bookshelf. In her memories, Varric grinned up at Hawke cheekily as she placed her edition of In Pursuit of Knowledge onto the bottom shelf back at Amell House. “The rediscover of the Temple of Sacred Ashes…”

The man looked up at his name and smiled, far too cheerfully, “Yes? Have we met?”

“Hardly,” the Moustache quivered, “But I have read all your books…”

“That must have taken a while,” Carver muttered, and the Moustache was turned on him critically. “Sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

“Is it not wonderful? A miracle, a sign from the Maker that he has blessed his Wardens and their willing sacrifice on behalf of the rest of us,” beamed Genitivi, his quill hovering over his parchment. “It was purely providence I arrived at this time…”

“You certainly get around,” Hawke agreed and knelt, her shaking hand over the baby griffons. “May I…”

“Let them smell you first,” the blond elf Warden instructed. “Some of them are more cautious about people they aren’t familiar with. They are animals, after all, and can be… dangerous. Even at this age.”

“Claws mostly,” laughed Valya. “Don’t let Caronel think they’re going to shred you into tidbits and gobble you up. They can‘t handle catching their own food yet, much less eating a goat whole.”

“They’ll bite too,” the elf seemed rather affectionate to the mage, and Hawke thought she could explain his wariness. The mage was very young, and Caronel was older than she, certainly. But it was none of her business. “Stay out of the way of the beaks, unless you’re fond of lovebites.”

Valya flushed at that, and refocused. “Still, he’s right. Let them smell you, and they’ll let you know if they’ll let you pet them. If they want it, they won‘t let you get away until you do. They‘re rather catlike in that way.”

“Why doesn’t the whole world know about this?!” Hawke found her words again. “Griffons could tip the balance in the war against Corypheus…”

“Who?” Valya looked at the Chamberlain, confused. “They’re only just hatched. They’re babies. They’re not going to be old enough to fly, according to the records in the library, for months… they deserve more than to be fodder in some random war… we need to selectively rebreed them, build the population back up…”

“Ah, yes,” the Chamberlain actually stuttered, and cleared his throat. “It does appear that we have… found a connection to the disappearance of the Wardens from several Holds and outposts. Namely…”

“Corypheus is a talking darkspawn that claims to be one of the original magisters that broke into the Golden City.” Hawke broke into the Chamberlain’s formal phrasing. “My fault, I admit it. He was being held beneath the Vimmarks in a Warden prison… and I let him loose. I‘m ever so sorry.”

“A talking darkspawn?” Valya’s eyes turned to her, almost glowing in the dim light. “Chamberlain - that story we found about the Fereldan Warden Commander and the Architect! Corypheus… in Tevene doesn‘t that mean ‘Conductor?!’ An Architect and a Conductor…”

A templar in the far corner flinched visibly. “It’s alright,” soothed her companion under his breath.

“Yes, rather,” the man agreed. “The creature seems, like the story of the Architect you found before, to be able to fake the Calling, and… communicate.”

“Shit,” Caronel muttered, his brow furrowed as he watched Valya.

“You said it,” Hawke agreed. “I’m assuming you’ve heard something about the war that’s creating a few problems down south. He and his ‘Vint mage minions convinced the Orlesian Warden Commander that the best thing to do was to try to wipe out the archdemons at the source, by summoning a demon army. One thing led to another, and well, the whole south is a bloody mess. Rather literally. War from the Hissing Wastes clear to the Fereldan Hinterlands. That’s the ’random’ war you don’t want your pets fighting. I‘m only here because the Inquisition wanted Weisshaupt to know not to listen to the False Calling. It seems I‘m a bit late.” Her eyes were drawn back to the fuzzy, puffy creatures at their feet. “I never expected to find… this.”

Valya gawped at her. “You’re joking. That‘s why you‘re here? To tell the Wardens that the Calling isn‘t real?”

“For once, she‘s definitely not joking,” Carver muttered, and the Moustache twitched. Stroud squatted down, and crooning, a small ball of fluff pressed itself up into his hand.

“Aww, the Moustache’s made a friend,” Hawke teased, but in the next minute, one nipped her, and then… “Sweet Maker, they… they purr?” Her own downy ball twined its neck around her wrist, opening its beak and she stroked it hurriedly before it could strike. “Anders would have loved them,” she muttered aloud.

Carver blinked at her in surprise. “You never mention…”

“For obvious reasons,” she bit off and scratched at the creature’s neck. “Aren’t you a darling little monster,” she laughed. “Dog would have swallowed you whole. Or been your best friend. Hard to say.”

“I have so many questions,” the mage settled herself crosslegged next to her. “Are you staying a while? Until we found the griffons, our job was supposed to be looking for records of Wardens acting oddly, or of darkspawn who were… different. If you’ve met one…”

“The Champion and her brother,” Carver ground his teeth audibly at the Chamberlain’s words, “will be staying with us for some time.”

“We will?” Hawke shifted back, and noticed that the mage recorded her movements. She had some fighting skills, she noted. Not entirely a scholar, then. One step up from the Inquisitor. “Who says?”

“If you will not stay of your own volition, we will force you,” the Chamberlain said bluntly. “We need your information too badly to let you leave now. In addition, we have the griffons to protect. Until they are grown, and able to defend themselves, you will remain.”

“The fuck I will,” Hawke stood up, drawing her staff, and her puffball fell over, squawking indignantly. “I have obligations! My friends and hundreds of others are dying at Corypheus’ hand! Darkspawn are your problem - you can‘t afford to stay neutral in this conflict! Even with the griffons to care for!”

“We are the group most at risk from Corypheus. We cannot risk throwing ourselves in front of him, trying in vain to destroy him - there are too few of us left. We will allow you to write letters, as long as you do not mention the griffons or…”

“You’ll ‘allow’ me to do shit-all! I do what I want.”

The Chamberlain closed his eyes, and an aura of magic was the first sign Hawke had that he was mage in his own right. “I am sorry, Champion. But I cannot…”

Hawke flashed a dispel immediately, countering his attempted compulsion. “You can’t force me to stay! And you can‘t keep me quiet!”

“Wardens!” The Chamberlain ordered, “Escort the Champion to a chamber.” Hawke noted that Caronel didn’t rise, but the Templar in the back corner did.

Carver drew his great sword, “Don’t touch my sister, Templar.”

“Brother, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the woman sighed, “much less your sister.”

“A likely story. You don‘t seek out the Wardens to embrace a life of peace.”

Stroud rose slowly, “Hawke, can you not go willingly? Is this the time to shed blood?”

“I don’t take well to confinement,” Hawke backed slowly towards the door.

“We will let you wander freely, if you submit,” the Chamberlain offered desperately.

“I’m not the submissive type.”

“Then you leave us no choice,” and the last thing Hawke remembered was the sound of squawking baby griffons and the sight of the ceiling, fading into black.

 


	11. Varric, Can You Hear Me?

She woke later, in a large room, well appointed, laying on a bed, with an aching head. “You really have no common sense,” the blond elf - Caronel - she remembered, was saying, as her eyes fluttered open, “do you?”

She groaned and sat up. “Who hit me?”

“I did,” the elf replied, with a tone of humor. “I didn’t want to, but if there is one thing the Chamberlain of the Grey has right, it’s that we need all the answers you can give us. He hasn’t received a letter from Warden Commander Clarel in over a year. He’s heard from Vigil’s Keep, from Antiva, but never from the Commander of Orlais.” He looked at her soberly, “And you know why.”

“He’ll never hear from her now. She’s dead - killed at Adamant Fortress. The closest thing Orlais has to a Warden Commander now is Stroud,” Hawke swung her feet over the side of the bed. “Or at least… she’s probably dead.” She sighed and cradled her head in a hand. “It’s complicated.”

“Just like everything else,” the elf laughed, and rose. “I’ll leave you to your solitude. I’m not your jailer. I won’t keep you from looking around, even if I had been asked. I sympathize with you - with a war to fight, I wouldn’t want to be stuck here either. I was too young, last Blight, to see more than stragglers. And you’re worried for your friends. They won’t have to worry about you if you take the Chamberlain up on his offer.”

Hawke snorted, “One will worry anyway.”

“Then you are fortunate in your friends,” Caronel smiled. “Talk to Valya. She is not a Warden. She doesn’t have our restrictions.”

“She’s not a Warden, yet she…”

Caronel caught her eye and smiled wider. Hawke caught her breath. He was a very attractive man, almost as good looking as Fenris. Yes, Fenris, not the other guy she was trying not to think about. “She’s extraordinary, in many ways. The Wardens owe her their future. And they know it.” He wandered to the door, “I’ll send her to you, assuming I can convince her that you‘re worth her time. She’s wary of strangers. Also, I believe that Genitivi man wants to pump you for news.” He laughed, hand on the door. “Better him than me.”

Hawke rose, and went to the pitcher provided for her on a pedestal. She sipped the water directly from the pitcher, closing her eyes at the coolness, and then soaked the cloth folded next to it, and began to rinse her face, thinking quickly and fingering the lump at the base of her skull.

She hadn’t seen him coming. That was disturbing. He had been right in front of her, and then…

Rapping at the door interrupted her thoughts, “Enter,” she bade, rather grumpily.

“Sis,” Carver started. “Are you…”

“I’m fine. A bump, but no harm done. How long was I out?” she tossed the cloth back next to the pitcher and faced her brother, arms crossed.

“Only a few minutes,” Carver sighed. “You were coming to, and then the mages put you to sleep instead, so that they could carry you up here. Without you causing collateral damage to the people around you. Your reputation proceeds you. I‘m surprised they didn‘t have the Templar smite you, honestly. I wouldn‘t have been able to stop her.”

“So I won’t be able to blame my bad decisions on brain damage,” smirked Hawke, sitting back on the bed. “We’ve got to break out of here. Any ideas?”

“Why?”

Hawke blinked at the unexpected answer. “I have places to be.”

“I don’t. If you hadn’t noticed, the only reason I had a place in the Guard was by Aveline’s say-so. They’ll do just fine without me.” Carver kicked back against the wall in the chair that Caronel had vacated. “I’d be happy to stay for a while. Griffons, Hawke. Real live griffons. I might even join up, if they’ll let me.”

Hawke stifled her instinct to forbid him, with difficulty, “That’s up to you, I suppose. Though I would think you’d be more reluctant, given the situation in Orlais.”

“Sounds like the Inquisition has Corypheus well in hand, or they‘ll lose everything anyway. I won‘t be able to make a difference one way or the other.” He kicked forward again, all four legs resting on the floor. “This is… this is a chance for us, Sis. To make up for letting that bastard magister loose in the first place. I don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry to go.”

Hawke looked at him in disbelief. “Carver, I‘m responsible…” she stopped herself. He didn’t really care about her deep feelings of remorse and guilt. Not really. This was Carver, after all. “You know I don’t sit still well. I don’t care how big Weisshaupt is, I’m already itching to leave.”

Carver weighed her, “Don’t lie to me, Sis. You don’t have to protect me for Mother’s sake anymore.”

Hawke leaned forward deliberately, “You want the truth? I think the whole situation stinks to high heaven. Where’s the First Warden? Why isn’t he here, trying to find out why the Orlesian Wardens aren’t reporting in? You heard Stroud on the way here. Caronel just told me something similar. Why is the Chamberlain running things in Weisshaupt? You’re right about the griffons - they’re the single most important thing to happen to the Grey Wardens since the Blight. Corypheus is the second. Reverse that. Whatever. So why isn’t the bastard here, instead of playing politics? He has not one but two major events occurring under his nose, and he’s ignoring the situation entirely. The mages that are raising the Griffons - they haven’t even been given the Joining. They aren’t Wardens - they’re refugees from the fallen Circles. The Chamberlain…”

“The Chamberlain doesn’t want them to become Wardens,” Stroud said from the door, and entered, taking a place next to Hawke on the bed. “He was quite clear. We need their research skills more than they need them linked to the Blight like the rest of us.” He cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to start training them and the younger Wardens, as I did for Warden Commander Clarel before we… fell out. I was asked to see if you would assist.”

“It all stinks, Stroud, and I‘m not talking about the griffon shit,” Hawke let her head fall forward and she stared at the floor with single-minded intensity. “You know that, right? Why would I teach a group of mages how best to fight me?”

“The future of the Grey Wardens might be in our hands, my friend. Do you want that on your conscience, when the next Blight begins? Surely, despite the behavior of my misguided Warden Commander,” Hawke cursed at the euphemism, in what she felt like was a very polite manner, “there is something worth preserving? Even if it is just so that we can throw ourselves between the next archdemon and the rest of the world?”

Hawke closed her eyes and shuddered, seeing Bethany’s neck snap in a single shake of an ogre’s claw. “You make a potent argument.”

“If you help, you won’t be confined to your quarters, either,” Stroud pointed out remarkably gently. “You can… snoop… well, Varric insinuates. Who knows what you will discover, in time and with freedom?”

Carver snorted. “My sister, nosy? You must be mistaken.” The Moustache twitched in good humor.

“I’ll stay. For a while,” Hawke clarified after a long moment of thought. “But I’ll need to write to Varric, or he‘ll dig up all his contacts in the Anderfels to send to rescue me. You’d better find out what I’m not allowed to mention.”

<LLR>

_Dear Varric,_

Hawke had begun the letter considerably earlier in the day, punctuated by the throwing of parchment, grumbled mutters of “This is impossible,” and railing against paranoid Wardens. “Damn it to the Void,” she finally managed, and started scribbling, her writing as impossible as always. Varric was one of the few with the patience to decipher it.

The Inquisition’s spymaster would be pretty frustrated, if she was reading his mail.

_The Wardens are making me limit what I say, so this won’t be as long of a letter as either of us would like. But I’m alive, and well, and holed up in Weisshaupt. The food is good - better than the rations you’re getting in the field, I bet - and the drink is better - have you ever tried Grey Whiskey? Because damn, Varric, I’d set_ _up housekeeping here if they’d keep me supplied with the stuff. And there are plenty of reasons to drink these days. Most of which I can’t mention, lest my hosts decide I look vaguely like a darkspawn and decide to do away with me._

_I jest. Mostly. I have been treated moderately well. I can wander around, and talk to all the people I want. Sometimes they talk back. I think everyone here has heard my sad story by now. They walk in the other direction when they see me coming. Except for the First Warden, whom I have yet to meet. You might have a few little birdies look into his business away from home._

_You might let the Inquisitor know that her buddy Genitivi is here, researching the Blight. And other things. Unbelievable things. Sweet Fucking Maker, Varric, I hope you’re seeing a theme here. Don’t make me spell it out for you?_

_I’m training mages in my spare time. I can hear you laughing from here. But there are a couple who are definitely talented. This Valya chick isn’t a Warden yet but she knows which end of a staff to point at an enemy. We’ve talked a bit - she’s from the Hossberg Circle, originally. They walked here when the Wardens offered asylum to both sides. She’s proved herself indispensable to them since. Interesting, right?_

_There are Templars here, too. From Orlais. Guess not everyone went bonkers and started drinking red lyrium after all? Also interesting._

_Carver made it. I know you were worried. He gets more irritated everyday with being known as my brother. Hopefully he doesn’t do something stupid._

_What am I saying? It’s Carver. It’s just a matter of time._

_I hope you haven’t gotten yourself killed. Bianca better be watching out for you. I’m trying to keep busy teaching mage kids which end of a sword to dodge. The Moustache is handling the sharp things, and I’m staying out of the way and trying not to pick too many fights. Carver’s trying to make friends. Hopefully playing ‘Good Hawke, Bad Hawke’ works out for us. Guess which of us is which?_

_Tell the Inquisition that the Chamberlain hasn’t had news out of Orlais in months, at least, a year, if you ask certain people. These guys love their secrets, and I’m not sure they play well with others. They sure aren’t like the Moustache or the Beard. I’m here for the foreseeable future, whether I like it or not. Not like I really have anywhere else to go. Guess you’ll have to do without me for a while. Try not to mope?_

_Say ‘hi’ to the Chest Hair for me. And if anyone we know writes, forward the letters. I’m really, really bored. When I get bored, I blow things up. You don’t want me to start explosions in the heart of Weisshaupt Fortress, do you? Amuse me, Varric. That’s an order._

_Your bestest friend, with love and kisses and noogies,_

_Hawke_

<LLR>

“Do you think he’ll know what you mean?” Carver handed back the letter, frowning, and then shoved the bottle at his sister, who took it and refilled her glass gratefully.

“Carver, Varric has shed blood and written a book about me. He‘s capable of reading between the lines. If I don’t have a letter from him in a matter of weeks, I’ll burn Da’s staff and join the Chantry.”

“You’d look terrible in initiate robes.”

“Vael didn’t think so,” her laugh was bitter, just like the name on her lips.

“Vael’s an idiot.”

“I attract idiots, if you haven‘t noticed. That‘s what being the Champion of Kirkwall is all about.”

“That’s not what I meant, Sis.” Hawke lifted her eyes from her second whiskey in surprise. “He shouldn’t have tried to… cheapen everything you fought for like that. He should have realized that the Chantry wasn’t an option for an apostate.”

“Fortunately, the only opinions that matter are his and mine. Right now I‘m happy I dodged that arrow.” Hawke focused on her lap, fist tight with tension and the other white knuckled around her glass, mentally begging her brother to drop the damn subject.

“You’re not happy, Sis.“

“Tell me something I don’t know, Carver.“

“Just felt like it needed to be said.” Carver cleared his throat. “All right, so, what happens now?”

“Now, Varric will send out all his little contacts, fretting about their lives the whole time, and unravel the plot. He’ll send me back a nice fat letter, about the Inquisition and all the good they’re doing, with wonderful little tidbits mixed in to tantalize and inform me. And then, he’ll send me a Friend. Hopefully one who will help me bust out of here like one of the De Launcet girls‘ corsets at the Wintersend Ball.”

“Damn, I knew I should have gone to that ball when Mother tried to convince me that dancing was an appropriate amusement for a young nobleman.”

“You missed out big time, Brother. Floppity.” Hawke raised her glass and drank. “Now, tell me what you found out from your new Warden friends.”

Carver tossed down a letter. “You’re not the only one who can snoop. I talked myself into the Chamberlain’s messy office so that I could discuss joining up. Spotted this and palmed it. Read.”

Hawke grabbed the letter and cursed fluently, “Andraste Fucking the Maker in the Fade, Carver. What the fuck!”

_First Warden,_

_I’m writing to you from the Royal Palace in Denerim on a matter of grievous concern for my entire Kingdom: The King of Ferelden, my husband, is hearing the Calling._

_I know that the two of us left the Wardens in a difficult situation, as our duty called us in a different direction. I know that most Senior Wardens bear us no love, and wish us no kindness. But the death of my husband would complicate succession issues, cause tumult in Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches, especially, as you well know, we have no heir._

_I write to humbly beg you and your archivists’ assistance in finding a cure for his Calling. I don’t care about my own - I will descend into the Deep Roads with the rest of my brothers and sisters, as necessary, but my King is needed here and now. The likely successor for the Fereldan throne is either Arlessa Anora Theirin, who will banish or hunt the Wardens as her father did, or Arl Eamon, who may be less of a threat, but will not treat our Order with the respect it deserves._

_I intend to travel to Weisshaupt quite soon to see what I can discover on my own. I hope you will allow me an audience during that time, to allow me to make my argument more thoroughly._

_Sincerely,_

_Elissa Cousland-Theirin_

_Queen and Warden-Commander of Ferelden_

Hawke scanned the letter in disbelief. “You’re shitting me. She wrote three years ago and asked for help? What about a response?”

“Asked around, real subtle-like. Varric would be proud. They refused her, and I quote, 'Wardens are not allowed to involve themselves in the affairs of nations'.”

Hawke snorted, “What a load of bullshit. A Warden King and Queen are on the bloody throne! Of course they involve themselves with governance!”

“Fancy word, Sis.” Hawke snarled at him. “But she showed up, sure enough, and hung out for a few weeks in the archives with a few of her closest friends, and then left in a hurry. No one knows where she went. No one’s seen her since.”

“I hope Varric sends help soon. This is… huge.” Hawke ran her hand through her hair. “She met the Architect, according to Valya. Do you think it has something to do with that?”

Carver grinned goofily. “Not my job to connect the dots, Sis. I’m just here to keep you in the loop while you piss off everyone around us.” Hawke pulled her letter back towards her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m adding a postscript. The Inquisition needs to know. Leliana can use this.”  Hawke finished scribbling, and sat back, eyes tight with stress.  "Maybe... maybe she can even find her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter may be a facetious reference to a certain Barbra Streisand movie. My Hawke brings out the worst in my pop culture references. I'm so sorry.


	12. A Friend in Need

It took a month and a half for the Friend to arrive. “I’m here for the Champion of Kirkwall,” the man told the doorkeeper, and Hawke, who had been haunting the front entrance for weeks at that point, perked up immediately, sliding off her bench and making for the entrance with the assistance of Fadestep. “I have a letter for her eyes only.”

“Sorry, no mail for the Champion ‘less the Chamberlain sees it first,” the doorkeeper drawled, holding out his hand. “I got orders.”

“I’ll show him later,” Hawke shoved the other man out of the way and took the incredibly plump letter, beaming. “I’m the Champion. You?”

“I’m Max,” the man’s smile was something to write home about. “Max Trevelyan. I’m here at the request of the Inquisition and your close, personal friend, Varric Tethras, the author.” His bow was rehearsed and precise.

“Maker’s Breath,” the last name clicked, “You’re the Inquisitor’s brother. Since when does she have a brother?” There‘s no way even a cousin would look that similar, though his hair was darker, and he had what looked like perpetual five o‘clock shadow. “And what the fuck is she thinking, sending you here?”

“I would appreciate it if you would keep it quiet, until such a time as I can use the knowledge effectively,” Max grinned, looking even more like his little sister, “as I have a reputation to uphold. I… happened to be in the area. In a matter of speaking.”

“How in the name of the Maker do you happen to be ‘in the area’ of Weisshaupt?”

“Kal-Sharok,” Max summed up succinctly. “They agreed to let me exit the Deep Roads this way, as long as I kept my mouth shut.” The dwarven doorkeeper blinked at him vaguely, and then shrugged. “I only had to travel for three days above ground. Lovely place you have here…” he attempted to enter the door, and the doorkeeper swung an axe around to block his entry.

“No one enters Weisshaupt without approval of the Chamberlain. ‘Specially now.” The tattoo around the doorkeeper’s eye wrinkled with an insincere smile. “Havin’ a bit too many unexpected visitors, if you get my meaning.”

“Run along and fetch him then,” Max’s good humor disappeared. “Lest my patience wear thin. I‘ve been given a mission.” A single gleaming throwing dagger appeared in his hand as if by magic. “One I intend to follow through with.”

The doorkeeper moved aside, and - a little faster than might be expected - scooted away to ring for help.

“There, that’s better,” Max ran his hand through his dusty hair - coated with the red sand of the Anderfels. “I’ll speak quickly. Are all the Wardens hearing the Calling? Or is it just Orlais?”

“Definitely Orlais, and the King of Ferelden, and possibly the Fereldan Wardens,” hissed Hawke. “They hadn’t heard from Clarel for more than a year, by some counts, Lord Trevelyan. And they’ve lost contact with the Hero of Ferelden, if that wasn‘t clear from my letter.”

“How do you lose a Queen of a entire country? And call me Max. I‘m not loved, back home. The title could die right here and now and I wouldn‘t grieve.”

“Pretty easily, if she doesn’t want to be found,” Hawke met his eyes seriously. “The Chamberlain had a letter from her three years ago, requesting help with researching a cure to the Calling. For her husband. Weisshaupt refused and there‘s been nothing since, or so my brother claims.”

“A cure? Is that even possible?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Hawke spoke more quickly, hearing footsteps. “Look, they’re going to try to lay a compulsion on you. I’ll try to block it, but I suspect that it won’t work. They… have a secret that they don’t want to get out. More than one, I’d say.”

“You left them alone?” Hawke’s nemesis appeared, the Chamberlain sighing.

“I had to fetch you, Ser!” The doorkeeper struggled to match his steps.

He observed Hawke, “I hope you prepared your friend for a lengthy stay, Champion.”

“She did!” Max beamed, all seriousness dissipated. “I have to say, after the Deep Roads, I’m looking forward to a long rest. Show me the way, dear man!” He winked at Hawke, “I’ll catch up with my friend later.”

Hawke retired to her own room, and paced for a while, hoping Max would find her. He slipped in a relatively brief time later, “You were right about the compulsion. I hardly even noticed that it was being cast. That Chamberlain’s magic is the sneaky sort. If I hadn’t known to look for it… but it took hold, I’m afraid. Can I talk to you?”

Hawke shrugged, “I don’t know. My brother is pretending to be besotted with the Wardens, and thinking about Joining. His act is good enough that I’m not sure if he’s just being a tit, or if the magic is working on him. I’ve discussed a few things with Warden Caronel and Stroud - but they‘re Wardens. Caronel seems more open to the idea that they aren’t the heroes we thought they were.”

“No one is the hero the rest of the world thinks they are. You‘ve met my sister,” snorted Max. “So… tell me. What’s this secret?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, but… one of the refugee mages from Hossberg found griffons.”

“Is that it?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“No! That compulsion was a work of art! Before Kal-Sharok, I spent 2 months in Tevinter, with blood mages attempting to cast mind controls of all sorts on me - none of them succeeded. This one feels like - like it‘s supposed to be there. Like its second nature not to talk about Warden affairs. They’re hiding something else.”

“Then we need to do more snooping,” Hawke mused, “preferably in the Chamberlain’s office. The piles of letters in the place…”

“Oh, I’m an expert at snitching letters,” Max smiled ferally. “Leave that to me.”

“Good. The Chamberlain is refusing to have anything to do with me at the moment. I’m making his life a pain. There is one thing that that mage from Hossberg mentioned. She mentioned another magister - the Architect. In combination with the Hero of Ferelden. Could it be connected?”

“The mage’s name?”

“Valya. She’s in charge of the griffons. I think she’s usually there, or in the library. They have the mages researching odd Warden behavior and darkspawn that are intelligent. I think her and Caronel have a thing. She’s smart enough to talk if she thinks it‘ll save the griffons.”

Max whistled, “Now that sounds like something my sister would want to know about. But unfortunately, she’s ass-deep in snow and Red Templars in the Emprise du Lion right now.” He sat down and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Is there any other news? From Varric… or other people?”

Max winked, “That’s what your letter is for. And your little distraction means that the Chamberlain didn’t get to read it first. Now, if you wanted to share it later, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s up to you. Let me know if you need me to make a copy without certain details - Varric has been working with me on forging his handwriting in case something like this needed to happen,” He kicked his foot back against the wall. “There’s a lot of interesting things going on down south, and my understanding is Varric didn’t try to save ink.” He rocked forward and stood up. “I’m going to go try to endear myself to this Valya, without getting stabbed by her boyfriend, and maybe introduce myself to Stroud and your brother. Read your letter. Think about whether you’d rather destroy it - or use it to bargain with our hosts. They might not have to be enemies, you know.” He sauntered to the door deliberately, “I find allies in the strangest places. Qarinus, for example. And Kal-Sharok. Don‘t discount the Wardens yet.”

Left alone again, Hawke opened her letter.

 

_Dear Hawke,_

Hawke’s eyes smarted at the sight of the familiar handwriting. “Maker, I miss you,” she muttered aloud, and then refocused through her tears. “You’d never have landed yourself in this mess.”

_You have been busy, haven’t you? Sorry about this taking so long - Red said she didn’t want to risk such a crucial mission on anyone but her best, and getting hold of Max in Kal-Sharok was a pain and a half. He gets around a little too well. Don’t sleep with him - he’s got an axe wielding girl back home. Dimples is deadly. Parents are Merchants Guild. You know the drill. Play nice._

_The Orlesian Wardens are minding their manners. They’re doing some darkspawn work in the Western Approach, rebuilding there. They’re trying really hard to be loyal, despite the Calling ringing in their ears 24-7. I’m kind of impressed._

_I should tell you that the ‘Hero’ turned out not to be much of one. “Blackwall” was a Warden, but the man you ‘knew’ by that name turned out to be one ‘Thom Rainier’ instead. Is that enough quotes to keep you busy for a bit? He’s a criminal wanted for the murder of some Orlesian noble and his family. The Quiz plans to hand him over to the Wardens. She took his lies personally, Waffles. Hope you aren’t too broke up. I’ve talked with him - and quite honestly, I think she’s making a mistake. She’s under a lot of stress, though. Buttercup’s pissed at her over it - but she went through the Blight in Denerim, got a soft spot for Wardens, even imaginary ones, and she’s probably Hero’s best friend anywhere._

_Right now, we’re ‘liberating the Dales’ or some shit like that. Emprise is the last stop, and then we’re moving on to the Arbor Wilds, where the Witchy one is pretty convinced that there’s some fancy mirror waiting for Corypheus to discover it. That said, I’m pretty sure that Curly plans to take out Samson before we get that far. Saw some plans in his office featuring the Temple of Dumat. If you write back, it’ll probably take a while to get a reply, as I‘ve been asked to go along for the ride. Try not to worry._

_Yeah, I know. By the time you get this, we might already be there. Mail delivery sucks in the Anderfels. Ravens have spoiled me. Got to get me some of those when I head back home._

Hawke scanned three pages of more mundane news, looking for the information she knew Varric would have hidden for her after a casual reader might have gotten bored. She found it halfway down the second to the last page.

_I should tell you that an old friend of mine showed up at Skyhold unexpectedly. She brought some real bad news. You know the contact I used to sell that red lyrium idol? It was Bianca. I know you suspected we were still involved, but… shit, I have to come clean on this. I know how everyone feels about her. She doesn’t make herself many friends. Not even sure she’s even mine anymore, not after this._

_I’m delaying the inevitable. Shit. Here goes; she says that red lyrium has the Blight, Hawke. That little tidbit will probably make your new Warden friends go apoplectic, am I right? Maybe - and I know you don’t read anything more difficult than the Randy Dowager - maybe you can do a little research and find out whether or not there’s anything in that legendary library of theirs that mentions it? Maybe ask those mages from Hossberg to help?_

_And yeah, Corypheus got his hands on the lyrium for the Templars through Bianca. From the start to the finish, Hawke, this is all my damn fault. Don’t hate me. I can‘t even look at… but never mind. Its just a fucking mess. I’m pissed off - at Bianca, at Bartrand, but mostly at myself._

_Red says Max is under orders to help you with whatever you need. He might be a noble, but apparently he’s really good at his job. You can trust him. Do what you think is best - you’ve got good instincts. And no, I’m not being sarcastic._

The rest of the letter listed various bets Varric had won off the Chargers, Sparkler, a few practical jokes Sera and the Inquisitor had pulled, and a minor internal debate he was having over the title of the book he was writing about the Inquisitor. The only other thing of note was:

_The Seeker is being unusually friendly about the Bianca fiasco. She doesn’t completely hate my guts after all. Color me shocked. She’s one of the good guys after all, I guess._

_Love and kisses and noogies, Hawke? What are you, three years old? But the Chest Hair says hello, and asks to be remembered to the Moustache. You might as well tell him that his bet about Curly and the Inquisitor was way off target, so he owes me three sovereigns. They’re still together. Definitely not just a wartime fling. She’s still wearing his ring, and the letters are getting even more sappy. Too bad plagiarism is frowned upon - I could make a fortune off some of the stuff Curly writes to his lady love. Suitable for a sequel to Swords and Shields. Who would have thought that the Templar armor hid the soft heart of a true romantic? And yes, now I am being sarcastic._

_You’re my bestest friend, too, though. Ugh, I can’t believe I just wrote that. You owe me. And let the five sovereigns go, already. Or collect my three from Stroud, and I’ll owe you two._

_Things aren't the same without you around, Limelight,_

_Varric_

_Future Author of ‘All This Shit Is Weird’ - working title, maybe?_

 


	13. Call Me Irresponsible

“You.” The Chamberlain dragged Hawke through his office door. “You’re responsible for focusing the attention of the Inquisition upon Weisshaupt.”

“Did you honestly expect me not to let my friends know that you’re keeping me here against my will?” Hawke resisted the urge to summon her magic and attack the man. It would start a fire, given the stacks of paperwork towering in his office.

She didn’t care about the paperwork, but the fire might spread. She was fairly certain Varric didn’t mean literal explosions from Weisshaupt. She could try to limit the collateral damage, at least.

“I expected you to understand. The griffons…”

Hawke forced herself to sit down, and propped her dusty boots on his desk, much to the Chamberlain’s disgust. “This isn’t just about the griffons. I know that the Hero of Ferelden requested your help, and you refused.”

“Wardens are sworn not to meddle in the affairs of…”

“Bullshit. By not meddling, you’re dooming Ferelden to another war of succession. Right now King Alistair favors the Wardens, thanks to his wife. If something happens to her, what do you think will happen? Is that in the best interest of your Order?”

The Chamberlain shook his head, and didn’t answer.

“But that’s not the only thing you’re hiding in Weisshaupt, is it?” Hawke cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders deliberately. She needed to be loose, in case he attacked.

She underestimated him. “From now on, all mail you send, and that of your brother’s and friends will be read before it leaves with a courier,” the Chamberlain said, his face made of stone. “Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Hawke smiled, showing all her teeth. “But I’m not speaking to Carver at the moment. We’ve had a little disagreement. Happens all the time. Ask anyone. You’ll have to tell him yourself. Friends are pretty thin on the ground, too. But maybe you can answer a question for me… did you know that lyrium is alive?”

The Chamberlain’s face paled. “How can… that‘s impossible. I demand an explanation.”

Hawke swung her legs down. “Oh, you didn’t know, then? Pity you made an enemy of me, then, isn’t it? I don‘t talk to people who aren‘t my friends.” She rose. “Maybe, if you’re nice, I‘ll change my mind.” She left the room, as the Chamberlain lost his temper, and swept one of the many stacks of paper onto the floor, “I’m so glad we had this talk.”

<LLR>

“Hawke,” Stroud found her in her room, whistling and rearranging her minimal belongings, and sipping on a bottle with a handwritten label reading ‘Fiona’s White Magic’. He swiped it from her, and she watched the Moustache flutter with a breath after he took a sip of his own, coughing slightly afterward. “What have you been saying to the Chamberlain?”

“Just playing my part as the bad girl,” Hawke batted her eyelashes winsomely. Stroud snorted. “Five will get you twenty that he didn’t know lyrium was alive. That’s good - in a way. He‘ll be looking for answers now.” He took another drink, a longer one. She frowned and stole her bottle back. “Hey, that’s mine. Found it, fair and square.”

“You’re going to end up dead, at this rate,” Stroud grabbed her hand - the one not holding the bottle. “Please, my friend. Watch yourself.”

Max slid in the door, “You’ve bloody pissed him off. He’s yelling at Valya to start looking up information on lyrium.” His eyebrows raised at their hands. “Am I interrupting something?”

Hawke pulled away from Stroud, wincing, “I’ll apologize later.”

“You’ve got to sit still and play nice for a bit,” Max exchanged a look with Stroud. “Yes, you found out something crucial, but it means nothing if we can’t pass it on.”

“I don’t sit still well…”

“Trust me, I know,” the Moustache was nearly vibrating with tension. “Please, my friend. I have no wish to see you dead. Or conscripted. The pleasure of your company would mean nothing if you end up dead from the Joining.”

Hawke swallowed, “And… I don’t want to be conscripted. Model citizen of Weisshaupt, that’s me from here on out…” she wouldn’t meet Stroud’s eyes.

Stroud relaxed, and Max grinned cheerfully. “That’s more like it. Don’t worry, if we need a tantrum, I know who to go to. Do as you‘ve been asked for a bit. Train the mages, help in the library, play with the griffons. Lounge around and look absolutely harmless.”

Hawke made a face. “I don’t do demure. And I‘m terrible at doing as I‘m told. Maker, ask Carver. He knows.”

“No one will believe you are harmless, but at least you won’t die,” Stroud’s eyes were desperate. “That should not be your fate, Hawke.”

“All right,” Hawke gave in. “I’ll be good. Ish. Good-ish. Will that do?”

“It will have to be good enough,” Max shook his head. “Just don’t… push on anyone important, if nothing else. Think ‘tact’.”

“Right. Tact,” Hawke swallowed another gulp of her moonshine. “I can do that. Possibly.”

<LLR>

The frustration of lounging around, ‘helping’ Valya in the library - and finding absolutely nothing of interest whatsoever while simultaneously leaving the mage cursing the mess she left in her wake - was abated somewhat by making the younger mages cry everyday for weeks during her brutal training sessions, and the fact that her good behavior let her linger in her friend‘s company a little more often, without garnering suspicion. In addition, since the youngest mage, Berrith, continued to throw herself at Carver and Max, Hawke amused herself with leaving them in uncomfortable positions with the too-young lady.

Amusement was thin on the ground, in Weisshaupt. You had to take your fun where you found it.

“She’s impossible,” Carver muttered to Valya, “can‘t you say something?”

“At least you’re available,” Max was scandalized. “I’m more than twice her age, and I‘ve got a girl. With a bloody huge axe. The sort that is suitable for gelding, if you aren‘t picky what else follows the balls. Bernie‘s not picky. She‘s with me, after all.”

“She’s a predator! She caught me undressed in the baths,” Carver hissed to Valya, ignoring Max‘s perspective. “She stole my clothes and laughed as I grabbed a towel and ran back to my room, making… comments the whole time.”

“We start young in the Circle,” Valya explained, embarrassed, but amused. “Berrith started earlier than most. I’ve tried talking to her, but she… she’s not going to listen. Try to avoid her, if you can.” She leaned over the worktable in the library, frowning. “Max, why are you here, anyway? You could have delivered your letter and left, like every other messenger. It seems… it seems like you wanted to be caught?”

“The Inquisition was concerned about the silence from Weisshaupt about the Calling and its Wardens in Orlais,” Max spun his story - true for the most part. Hawke had to respect the way he could toe the fine line of truth. “And I promised to check up on Hawke while I’m here. The Wardens should tread lightly. They don’t want to make the Inquisition their enemy.”

“Inquisition,” sniffed Valya. “Are they just the Chantry by another name?”

“Not if my sister has anything to say about it,” Max grinned, and rocked on his heels at her surprise. “She has no desire to prop up a failing Chantry.”

“Not a complete idiot then,” Valya mused. “Has the Chamberlain written to her, Caronel? Weren’t you on rotation with him last week…”

“He knows better than to mention such sensitive topics in my presence,” the elven man observed her soberly. “I fear I am under suspicion. I‘ve been seen too often in the company of our guests. It‘s only due to Hawke‘s recent bout of good behavior we could risk this meeting.”

“You’re a better Warden than any of them,” Valya muttered.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” He smiled, Hawke caught her own breath, but Valya only shrugged, though her face turned red.

The girl must be blind. Or maybe it was an elf thing - perhaps he wasn’t as good looking to other elves?

“So the question is… could I get a letter out to the Inquisitor?” Valya’s question surprised both Max and Hawke. “I mean, all of you are already suspect. But I’m not. Other than working in the library with Hawke I barely see her - and you could hardly call what she does ‘working‘…”

“I found three new Orlesian romance novels and an entire year’s issues of the Randy Dowager hidden behind a shelf this week, I’ll have you know! Those will be more read than anything else in this place.” Hawke protested from her place behind the shelf, where she was trying to unobtrusively hear the conversation without obviously being a part of it.

Max tilted his head, warily in the direction of the younger mage. “Aren’t you under a compulsion?”

“Not yet,” Valya stood straighter. “Officially, the Hossberg mages are Warden recruit material. They aren’t going to compel me until they’re sure they don’t want me, or won’t join. They could always conscript me, I suppose, but…”

“But the Chamberlain doesn’t want them Joined,” Caronel butted in. “They’re too young, or too old, mostly. Time will solve the first problem. But Valya in particular has already proven her usefulness. If it weren’t for the griffons and the Calling, he would have already made the rest of them leave. They‘ve proven they aren‘t fighters, except for... Valya.” He pressed his lips together as if he had said too much.

“Why?” Carver was as blunt as his sister. “What are they hiding besides the griffons?”

“The location of every archdemon remaining, for one,” Stroud sighed. “Clarel had that knowledge. Every Warden Commander has that knowledge.”

“You know where they are? Why haven‘t you…”

“Where, not when,” Stroud clarified. “We cannot prevent Blights. And that mindset is exactly what led Clarel to allying with Corypheus, Carver. Think. The darkspawn burrow, find the archdemons. We can only stop them, once the archdemon has appeared. Otherwise, disaster. We could unleash them on the world by accident.”

“So is Corypheus‘ dragon an archdemon?”

“No, it’s not a real Blight,” Stroud pressed his hands into the tabletop to stop their shaking. “We would know. There are… signs. He does not command a darkspawn force, either. Just a dragon that… appears to be an archdemon, on the surface. A superficial mask. That alone is enough to send the world into a panic.”

“We won’t be able to get a secret letter out, unless one of us can sneak away,” Max flipped through a book as if he was browsing for something interesting. “They’re watching the door too closely, and the only way someone is getting out of here otherwise is through the massive dwarven doors in the cellars, or flying on one of the griffons.”

“How do you know about the doors…” Caronel started, but Valya interrupted.

“They won’t be old enough to fly for months!” The girl clutched a book to her chest. “Even then, I wouldn’t want to risk anything heavy…”

“Well, at least I can look forward to that,” snorted Hawke. “Just a matter of time, isn’t it?” She cleared her throat. “Carver has a rope, and a chain. Can we lower you down, Max?”

Max blinked, focusing on her face, and searching for something. “Possibly. I might be able to slip out, given enough stealth powder, and maybe a sleeping spell for the guards on the battlements… but what happens to the rest of you after I disappear?”

“I can provide the spellwork,” Valya offered, after a pause. “The Wardens owe me a lot. I don’t think that they’ll immediately assume I was the one to help you. Given Berrith‘s obvious attraction, I‘d say they would suspect her first. Anyone would think you had seduced her into helping you.”

“Why would you help us, for that matter?” Hawke narrowed her eyes at Max’s question. It was a good one.

“I debated for some time about whether the Wardens would just abuse the griffons again,” Valya spoke directly to the table, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Before I told anyone, I needed to be sure. The griffons didn’t just die out. They were systematically subjected to the taint, and they… killed themselves, one by one, unwilling sacrifices against the Fourth Blight. With restricted knowledge of their existence, I haven’t feared for them. Much. But the more I learn about the First Warden, the less I like.” She raised her eyes, and they were scared. “If it brings him power, he’d definitely…” Caronel put his hand on her shoulder and she relaxed. “I can’t let him repeat history‘s mistake. The griffons are too valuable.”

Caronel nearly whispered, “It feels… wrong to go against my Order, but I’ve read what Valya discovered. And I agree with her assessment of the First Warden. He would do anything for power.”

Hawke shook her head, “Too simple. Everyone has a reason for something, and its rarely ’just’ power.” Her voice was quiet, but the group at the table heard her well enough. Max nodded in agreement, his forehead wrinkled. “They justify that desire with something they genuinely need.”

“Worked for the blood mages in Kirkwall,” Carver muttered.

“We’re not fighting about this now, Carver. Not again.” She strode out and met her brother’s eyes over the table, and he dropped his away first. “It wasn’t just about power. It was about fighting for the right to exist. You were there. You know I‘m right. Meredith would have seen the entire Circle dead or Tranquil, if the Divine hadn‘t objected.” She sighed, melodramatically, to attempt to lighten the tone of the room. “Ugh, I hate politics. Why does it love me?”

“If I might make a suggestion,” Caronel started slowly, “You might enlist Genitivi in your cause. I get the impression its not the first time that he’s carried sensitive information. He has a few stories that suggest… a deeper purpose to his search for knowledge. He‘s been in regular contact with his… entourage and beyond. He claims even to write to the Inquisitor - but the Chamberlain doesn‘t read his mail. His letters would not be suspect. And Valya would be safe.”

“Will you approach him?” Hawke asked, scanning the library, and then retreating between the shelves again, even though she didn‘t see anyone listening. Caronel nodded. “Then… let’s not be seen together for a few days. Maybe longer.”

“That’s wise,” Valya muttered. “I think Berrith spies on people when she should be studying. Lock your doors.” She cracked a smile, “Or one of you might end up with a surprise in your bed.”

Both Max and Carver shuddered in unison and Valya‘s laugh rang through the reading room as they tried to subtly disperse.

Just in case, Hawke didn’t emerge from her own shelf for a good fifteen minutes after the others were gone. By then, the library was all but empty.

<LLR>

Brother Genitivi’s smile was huge when he confronted them openly - too openly - the next day, while they were feeding the griffons, “I would be happy to carry any news to the Inquisitor. One of our best minds…” he winked. Hawke looked from him to Stroud. Was the Brother flirting with the Moustache? “Or she was, before she was excommunicated. Such a pity the Divine hasn‘t reversed that already, given what she‘s done for all of us.” He stopped, regretfully, “Unfortunately, I gave my word that I would remain here. I cannot carry the missive myself. But to be asked… ah, it feels like youth again!” He sighed dreamily, “Those happy days, before the Blight. Weylon and I, against the world, traveling freely… he used to wear his hair long…” he raised an eyebrow, “and had a moustache. Not unlike yours, young man. It becomes you.”

Was Stroud… blushing? Hawke leaned back and decided to relish the moment.

“You’re under a magical compulsion,” Stroud protested, still flushing. “Your will has been subsumed…”

“No, I gave my vow willingly. The knowledge I seek is here,” the Brother said. “Spending a year or more in one of the largest depositaries of knowledge in the world is a small price to pay for the freedom to write about what I learn.” He had dropped his air of flirtation in favor of business, and Hawke could feel Stroud’s relief. She weighed her options, before deciding to throw Stroud to the wolves.

“Well, shit,” Hawke sighed. “So… back to Max, then? Or Valya? Perhaps you two could… spend some time together, while weighing our options?” Her voice was very quiet, but her eyes sparkled at Stroud.

“It looks like our best option,” Stroud agreed, stroking the Moustache, but ignoring the Brother otherwise. Now his face was nearly red. “If the Brother cannot help, I don’t think…”

“Call me Ferdy. And don’t dismiss me so quickly,” Genitivi smiled at Stroud with confidence. “I have followers - some of which are willing to linger in the Anderfels, waiting for me to return. Such devoted students. One of them…” He nodded, “Yes. With the next message delivery, I will send your letter. It is worth an attempt. After that, if it is intercepted, we will start from scratch. You seem to have several back up plans.” He leaned towards Stroud slightly, separated only by a griffon's tail. “I’d love to hear your plans.”

“Only with a lot less freedom and trust,” Stroud worried, and cleared his throat.

“We have to try something,” Hawke clapped him on his shoulder. “We will find a way, my friend. You and Genitivi can put your heads together,” her smile was wicked with innuendo, “figure something out.” She stroked the closest baby griffon - hardly a baby any longer, more like a gawky teenager with too many elbows and knees - and patted its rump before she left. “Stroud, just let me know what comes up?”

His muttered curses were music to her ears. It felt good to laugh.

 


	14. Shaken, Not Stirred

As it turned out, the next messenger brought more crucial news, and didn‘t stick around long enough to take a return letter.

“He’s dead.” Hawke burst through the doors of the dining hall, Varric’s latest letter in hand, this one already opened. It didn’t matter, even though the Chamberlain knew, nobody else did. She did so love to be the first person with news. “Corypheus - the Inquisitor shredded his ass with her glowy hand. A month and a half past, already, by the date of my letter!”

“That is wonderful news,” Genitivi glowed with the announcement. “A drink to Inquisitor Trevelyan! I think I have some Silent Plains Piquette in my room… I‘ve been saving it for just such an occasion!”

Hawke groaned, “Brother, you just became my best friend.” The Brother rushed out to fetch it. “So… what now?”

“We wait,” Caronel said very low. “And see. Will the Inquisition disband? Can we still count on their assistance?”

“I doubt they‘ll close up shop,” Hawke threw herself down into the stiff chair. It creaked with protest as she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “They’ve killed the magister, but things like that take a while to run down to nothing, don’t they? Even if Max is right, and the Inquisitor doesn‘t want to prop up the Chantry…” her words trailed off as the man in question strolled up.

“I thought I heard my name.” He sat down at their table, and propped up his feet on the wall opposite, obscuring the elaborate carvings of fruit that graced the walls. He pulled out one of his throwing daggers, and started to carve into an apple. “Trust me, I know Asta. She’s got a few more things on her plate already. Rumor was she was heading into the Frostbacks the next chance she found, to try to figure out what happened to the last guy that held her title. The Inquisition isn’t going anywhere, for at least a few years, by my guess.”

“So…”

“So nothing has changed. Not yet. I’m stuck here, you’re stuck here. Unless… we make something happen.” He took a deep breath. “But… we need to talk all the same.” He ate an apple slice, precisely, despite his nonchalant eating implement, chewed, and swallowed. Hawke rolled her eyes in impatience.

“Noble boys, too prim to talk with their mouths open,” she criticized.

Max‘s eyes gleamed in appreciation, “In my wanderings, I found someone. Someone that’s been missing. He’s in the dungeons,” he said, very quietly, once another slice had been dealt with. “Tonight, after midnight. I think both of you need to see this.”

Hawke didn’t bother to ask who. She would find out soon enough. And somehow, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

That night, Max led them down a spiral set of steps into the bowels of Weisshaupt. “How did you find this?” Hawke hissed. “I’ve been here months and I didn’t even realize the stairs were here! I thought I was being thorough!” Once again she winced, missing Varric, and Isabela. But definitely not the other rogue. Never him.

“Shh, there are guards,” Max warned, evading the question. “Can you cast a sleep spell?”

“It’s not my best trick, but I can try,” Hawke murmured worriedly. “Will we need one?”

“Yes. I‘m hoarding my potions and stealth powders.”

“I can get you more,” Caronel offered breathily. “I know where they are kept, and when they do inventory.” A guard’s boots shifted just down the hall, a long scrape that suggested he had them propped on a wall.

“I might take you up on that,” Max muttered. “But have the spell ready, just in case.” The boots shifted and he whispered, “Now.” They stepped out around the corner and Hawke let it loose. The guard, reclined in a chair, let his head fall to his chest, the anticlimactic result of her mana exertion.

“It will only last for a few minutes,” Hawke sidestepped, her hand uplifted in case she needed to try one more time. “But it is working. I think. Unless his job is just that boring.”

“Then let’s move,” Max led the way through the labyrinth of cells. “There’s an alternate exit, so we’ll take that way out. To avoid suspicion. The same guard falling asleep twice while on duty sounds like trouble. One is an accident, twice is suspicious, thrice is a pattern.”

Neither of the accomplices replied as they retreated to a lower level yet, and then further down a narrow staircase behind a hidden door. “Whoever designed Weisshaupt was paranoid,” Caronel said, marveling at their descent. “But I’ve always wondered, ever since I was first approached, what exactly we were Wardens of. Doesn’t a warden usually watch prisoners?”

Hawke snorted and conjured up a glowing wisp, to help them see, “Everyone‘s paranoid. I should tell you about Lady Harriman sometime. Middle of Kirkwall, one of the largest manors in Hightown, and she‘s excavating her basement to hide a demon better. As if anyone would have noticed, if she hadn‘t gone bat-shit-crazy, with all the other demons around…”

“I think I’ve met her daughter,” Max frowned contemplatively, “I think we had a dance, once.“ He halted at the bottom of another flight of stairs. “But we’re here.”

Before them there were a series of single cells, elaborately furnished. Only one was occupied, and the man inside raised his face.

“Holy Andraste,” Hawke’s stomach clenched. “Red lyrium? So the Chamberlain has to know…” The man face was a cluster of small red crystals, and his left foot was more club-like than something for walking. “He looks just like a Red Templar, only… wrong. What the fuck happened to you?” Despite her curses, her voice was soft.

Max cleared his throat, “I’d like to introduce you both to the First Warden. Or so he claims.”

Caronel shook his head, “The First Warden is in Hossberg, with the King of the Anderfels. He stays at court…”

“I’m the immediate past First Warden,” the man’s voice sounded painful, as if something in his throat tore at him, and it echoed strangely in his chest. “The current Warden…”

“The current First is responsible for… this,” Max indicated the crystals. “He says he was forced to drink it. I asked him, upon our first meeting. He doesn‘t always stay… coherent.”

“Can you hear him?” the Warden asked Caronel, reaching out to the other Warden through the bars in desperation. “I can’t hear him anymore! What happened to the song?”

“He’s insane,” Hawke blinked dully. “Max, this is fascinating… but what good is a crazy, corrupted Warden? Your sister has plenty of those back home. A surplus, even without Clarel.”

Max cleared his throat, “He’s corrupted, yes. But the Chamberlain…”

“The Chamberlain,” the Warden rasped. “He knows. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust…” he moaned and clutched his throat with hands that had no fingernails. Hawke stared at them with a mixture of disgust and pity. “Kill me, please?”

“Maybe later,” Max’s eyes were more calculating than Hawke had ever seen them.

“Please… Mercy, please…”

“We have to go,” Hawke urged them. “We can‘t kill him - they‘ll know we were here!” The man moaned in despair, and Hawke ignored the stab of guilt she felt.

Max sighed, “I know. This way,” he walked to the end of the hallway, and activated another secret door. “This one goes straight to the throne room. Whoever built Weisshaupt liked to keep their friends close and their enemies closer.”

“Shit, that’s where that door goes?” Hawke tried to laugh, but failed. There was no dissipating the haunting sight of the other man. “I’m glad I didn’t take door number two, then. Hard to explain how I ended up down here. Doubt they’d believe I was looking for a privy.” She frowned, “Funny it was unlocked, though, with as secretive as they’ve been otherwise.”

“A trap, is my guess,” Max shrugged. “You didn’t take it, so no worries. If you had, you‘d probably be locked down here, too.”

“Instead of having my many personal liberties, you mean?” No one bothered to reply as they ascended the staircase. “So how do we use this information?” Hawke asked after a moment.

“I hate to say it, but… we can’t,” Max sighed. “I could lead you here, but I’ve tried writing it down, and even spelling the words out aloud. The compulsion…”

“I could write it,” Hawke countered. “No one but Varric,” and Vael, she failed to mention, “can read my handwriting, but I could write it.”

“Can you carry a letter someone else writes?” Caronel asked worriedly. “Someone out there needs to know… what did they do to him?”

“I’m more concerned about the presence of red lyrium inside Weisshaupt then the fate of a single First Warden,” Hawke stressed to Max, knowing she was being too harsh. “If Varric knew…”

“Then my sister would march on Weisshaupt and sentence herself and all her followers to their deaths,” Max shook his head in defeat. “No one has ever taken Weisshaupt. The only way out of here until the griffons can fly is through the Deep Roads, Hawke. And those dwarven doors are locked up tighter than my father’s wine cellar. We can‘t tell the Inquisition.”

“Your father keeps his wine cellar locked?”

“My father doesn’t drink,” Max explained, eyes twinkling. “I’m really looking forward to that particular inheritance. Fifty seven years worth of aging, and its all waiting for me.”

“Do invite me for a visit sometime.”

“We have to do something,” Caronel spat into the ankle deep dust, and Max quickly schooled his expression into something less amused. “I didn’t become a Warden for this.”

“I’d love to hear your ideas,” Max rolled his eyes. “Hawke can’t just disappear, without being hunted down. You aren’t exactly free to abandon your Order either. Your girl…”

“She’s not my girl.” Hawke and Max stared in disbelief, but Max continued.

“…your girl is too preoccupied with baby monsters to carry a message, even if we had someone to tell. If I could get out, I could tell a Friend, but…”

“It’s going to have to be Genitivi,” Hawke realized. “He’s the only one whose mail isn’t going to be scrutinized, isn’t he?”

The three friends stared at their feet. After a few moments of silence, Hawke frowned, “I know I’m not the most… stable person of us three, but… do you feel that rumbling?”

And then the walls started to shake.

“Earthquake!” Hawke grabbed her companions and threw them upwards towards the next landing, and the stone arch that waited there. “Run! Run!” They sprinted up the stairs and huddled underneath the creaking groans of its shelter. “Maker,” Hawke whimpered, and slumped down, shaking in time with the mountain all around them. “Not again. Not again…”

“Hawke, you’ve got to get up,” Max said in her ear. “It’s over.”

“We’re going to die down here,” she felt the icy hand of Despair creep over her brain. “That monster collapsed the tunnels behind us. There‘s no way to go, Varric! We‘ll never find our way out. We should just give up...”

“It’s not dark, Hawke,” Caronel sounded confused. “There are torches everywhere. Open your eyes…”

Hawke forced her eyes open. She looked at the two men, her chest heaving, fighting for air that they didn‘t believe was there. “Where’s Varric. Oh shit, where's Varric? Don’t tell me…” she whimpered again. "Did it get him?!"

“Varric isn’t here,” Max’s voice was gentle. “He’s with Asta, remember? We’re under Weisshaupt,” Max reminded her. “Are you all right? Can you stand?” Hawke stared at him for a few minutes before her brain lurched forward and she stared around at the precisely carved stairwell, and smooth arch that surrounded them.

Definitely not the Deep Roads.

"Oh. Right." She croaked. "And no, not really." Hawke cleared her throat in embarrassment and climbed back to her feet, her muscles quivering like jelly. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Max led them back out to the stairs and they climbed in silence, occasionally feeling the aftershocks of the earthquake, every one making her press herself into a wall in lieu of falling down into a huddle. Once they finally reached the throne room, Caronel cleared his throat. “I’m going to go find Valya.”

“I’ll go to Stroud,” Hawke volunteered after a moment, still breathing as if she couldn’t believe the air was available. Part of her was convinced it wasn't.

“Then I’ll find Genitivi,” Max sighed. “Be careful, all of you. Don’t be seen, if you can help it?”

Hawke just nodded, and left the room, lost in her own thoughts, not caring if anyone saw her.

She had been in the Deep Roads, trapped behind heavy doors in a vault that she would never forget. And then, later, trapped in a chamber with… things slipping up on her, demons and shades that glowed in the dim light in a way that nothing should ever glow. She shivered, remembering, and hardly noticed that she had made it to Stroud’s room, thinking about the dark, and the horror, and the creature she had had to make a bargain with to survive. Blinking away tears, she knocked, and when the door swung open, with her friend framed just inside, rubbing his eyes free of sleep, she didn’t think, or debate.

She stepped into Stroud’s arms and kissed the fucking Moustache.

Stroud held his arms out stiffly, and then curled his hands around her shoulders, detaching her from his lips by turning his head. “Marian, no.”

“I need something good,” whimpered Hawke. “Please, Jean-Marc…”

“No,” he replied. “I refuse. If you would like to talk, come in. Tell me what has happened.” He guided her in and set her on his bed. “Does this have to do with the earthquake? It woke me…”

“Yes,” Hawke said, and let her face fall into her hands, only partially in embarrassment. They were still shaking. “And no." She took a shuddery breath, closed her eyes and began to confess. "Varric’s brother trapped us in the Deep Roads. We had to find our way out of there, on our own, more than a week beneath the surface. There were rock falls, blocking every way, it seemed. There was a rock… thing. A monster. It collapsed our only retreat, and we had to make a deal with it to survive. Since then, I… I don’t like being underground.” She stared at her friend. "Or earthquakes, apparently."

“We are not underground, Hawke,” Stroud sat down next to her and took her hand. “You know that.”

“I was, until just a few minutes ago,” Hawke whispered, looking in his eyes. They were calm, and sad, and serene. “Stroud, the Chamberlain has your First Warden in the basement. He’s crazy, and corrupted with red lyrium.”

“That’s impossible… the First Warden is at court.”

“I’m not lying to you, Stroud. I may not have told you everything, over the years, but I have never lied.”

“What has become of my Order?” Stroud closed his eyes. Hawke couldn’t answer - she didn’t know. Was this what the Wardens had been intended to be? Caronel’s earlier question rang in her head. What exactly, were they wardens of?

Hawke shifted back on the bed, making a decision. He could refuse, but he wouldn't. “Can I sleep in here, tonight? I… I don’t want to be alone.”

Stroud opened his eyes, and the sadness in his eyes made her look away. “Yes. But I’m sleeping on the floor. I’m not who you want, my friend. I will not, cannot take advantage of your fear.” He retrieved a blanket from the bed, and spread it out beneath him, laying down with his arm under the back of his head.

“Stroud?” Hawke shifted to lay sideways so that she could see him.

“Yes, Hawke?”

“How do you know what I want?”

“I do not know what you want. I don't think you know, either. But I know you do not want me, because you could have had me at any point in the last three years.” Stroud rolled over and faced her, lines deepening into shadows on his face from the moonlight sifting through the shuttered window. “Sleep, my friend. You are safe.”

“I’m never safe,” she whispered. “But I guess I’ve still got it.” She tried to sound lighthearted.

“You certainly do.” Her friend smiled. “I thought you knew.”

 


	15. First Flight

They were woken up with severe shaking the next day, bottles rattling off shelves, and shattering into a million pieces. “Merde!” Stroud yelled, shielding his eyes, and leaping into the bed to cover her from the flying glass. “Close your eyes, Marian!”

When the shaking finally subsided, Stroud rocked back off her. Hawke reached up and touched his cheek, leaving behind a smear that touched his nose. “You’re bleeding.”

“A shard caught me, I suppose,” he sighed, and looked at her fingers. “Just a scratch, I take it. It will heal soon enough.”

Hawke nodded, and cleared her throat. “Jean-Marc…”

“Oh, are we on first name basis, now, Marian?”

“You started it,” she shoved him slightly and he rolled onto his back next to her. “I… Thanks. I really needed company.” He smiled, but the sadness was still there. “I know I kid around a lot, but…” she leaned over and kissed him again, experimentally.

He closed his eyes, and groaned. “Marian.”

“Yeah?”

“You should go.”

“Don’t want to.”

“You don’t want this.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind. You took glass for me.” She sat up and flung a leg over him. “My hero.”

His eyes shot open, haunted by longing and desperation. “Marian…”

“Do you want this or not?”

“Not like this. There‘s… someone you care about. Someone not me. You don‘t mention him, I don‘t even know his name, my friend. But his ghost stands between us.” He paused, “Is it Anders? Did you kill your lover?”

“No, not Anders.” Hawke rolled off him. The mention of the man was always a mood killer. “Didn’t you read the damn book like everyone else?”

“No. It seemed an invasion of privacy. And you told me it was full of lies.”

“Not all of it was lies,” Hawke cleared her throat. “All right. Your virtue is safe from me.” His curses were comforting. “It’s hard for me to talk about. If you really want to know - Carver was there. Go ask him. He’ll gossip and complain about me happily. Or there are at least five copies in the library.” She swung her legs off the bed, and sighed. “Find me, if you have any questions.”

For several days, she avoided the aerie, despite her need to maintain her ‘good girl’ front, just so she wouldn‘t have to explain any of her… issues, romantic or otherwise. When she finally dared return, Stroud, Valya, Caronel, Max and her Templar friend had spread out over a table, reading about griffons - the ancient books taking up most of the available space. “Wow, and I thought the griffons made a mess in here,” she swung a chair around and sat in it backwards. “Can I look at the pretty pictures?” She pulled a huge tome towards her before they could answer, doing her best to act as if she had never been absent.

They humored her, and she breathed a little easier.

“The Griffons have been restless,” Valya worried aloud. “I’ve read about animals sensing earthquakes before they happen… I‘m trying to find out if the Wardens ever used them in the Deep Roads to sense rock falls. Or if its something to do with their age…”

The book in front of her was a detailed cross-section of the griffon reproductive system. “Are they going through puberty?” Hawke hooted.

“Perhaps,” her Templar friend agreed calmly. Hawke lost her smile. Even after all these months Hawke had kept her distance, and wasn’t a hundred percent sure of her name. She wasn’t here to make friends with Templars. “Watch them closely, Valya… if it’s the earthquakes setting them off, maybe we‘ll be able to tell when one is about to happen?”

Max fidgeted with the pages in his own book. “You don’t think those caused any other damage, do you? I was sweeping glass for a half hour today… my whole stock of Tempest potions is still smoking in my room. I had to break all the ice flasks to counter the fire.” His light tone seemed forced.

Caronel met his eyes in horror, “You think, perhaps…”

“Those doors,” Max confirmed, under his breath.

Stroud cursed. He had been doing that a lot lately. “Merde. I will go talk to the Chamberlain at once. Caronel, come with me. If we have left ourselves vulnerable…” he caught Hawke’s eyes, and averted them, “It ‘twould be best this comes from Wardens, not… guests.”

A griffon squawked as they left, high and irritable and Hawke stood to try to soothe it. She sucked at research anyway. All these months, and not a single thing about why ’the Hawke’ was needed anywhere. “Shit, they really are upset, aren’t they?” She shook her hand where it had nipped her, and she looked up. “Do those stairs lead to the battlements?”

Valya smiled an affirmative, “Someday, if all goes well, they’ll fly off of them.” She relaxed a little, the worry over the situation lesser, for the time being. “My research indicates their wings will hold them soon. Not strong enough to hold people, but definitely themselves.”

Hawke just nodded, and continued grooming the monster’s feathers. “Good, in a pinch, at least they can escape.”

Valya looked at her, surprised, and then shocked her with another rare smile - one that met her eyes. “So they can.”

Two more earthquakes rocked the fortress that day, before they stopped, and a half an hour later, Stroud stomped in, furious. “This is a travesty. The doors are damaged. We’d need a dwarven builder to look at them, and the Chamberlain refuses to send for one. Says that the Wardens can’t afford it, and that the risk is minimal!”

“He’s not normally so shortsighted,” Valya protested.

“Those doors lead directly into the Deep Roads,” Stroud confessed at last, stroking the Moustache nervously. “Without them to shield us…”

“Every earthquake is likely to cause more damage,” Hawke sighed, defeated. “Stroud…”

Stroud nodded. “We need to plan for the possible evacuation of Weisshaupt, should the darkspawn come for us.” His eyes rested on Valya. “And we can’t tell the Chamberlain.”

<LLR>

The emergency preparations went on for some time, and while the earthquakes seemed to have slowed, the damage remained. The group took turns standing cautious guard over the doors, always with at least one Warden with them, to sense the darkspawn coming.

Hawke met Valya on the battlements a day after one of her shifts, yawning. “So this is it? You think they’ll figure it out on their own?”

“I don’t know,” the mage confessed. “Normally their mother would be here, it’s true.” She was carrying her staff. “She would demonstrate, then land, one account says. Then… they would fly. The diary I found wasn’t thorough on the description of the process, but was rather poetic.”

“Well, you know what they say: you can show a griffon the sky, but you can’t force him to fly,” Hawke joked, and behind her, Carver groaned. The first flight of the griffons was attracting all sorts of attention from the residents. A Warden led a griffon up into the open air, and the creature cawed and pawed anxiously, blinking in the bright light.

“Stand clear of the claws!” Valya ordered, all business. “Lead her up here.” She stroked the creature with soothing noises, and then fed her a few pieces of meat. “There you go,” she smiled. “If you want more, beautiful, you’re going to have to work for it.” She backed up, and the monster followed her, crooning. Valya tossed the meat into the air, and with a squawk of surprise, the griffon bunched, and launched herself after it.

A long drop of breathless wonder lasted for what seemed like eternity until the griffon, having captured the meat in her jaws, spread her wings and soared upwards, twisting with ethereal beauty in the joy of flight, a dark shadow against the desert-bright sky. “So lovely,” Valya’s eyes shone with triumph. “Bring the others,” she ordered. “Every single one.”

The air above Weisshaupt was filled with griffons for the first time in ages, all amply rewarded for their new skills, with one exception. The stubborn griffon in question cawed, but let the meat tossed in the air be eaten by his brothers and sisters rather than take the final step. “He just won’t do it,” his handler concluded. “Any ideas, Valya?”

“Yes.” Valya turned to Hawke. “You’re a force mage. Shove him.”

Hawke blinked, but obeyed, gathering her mana up in a concentrated mass and the bird-creature, screaming his defiance at the betrayal, dropped like a stone before he spread his wings and took to the air. Valya threw another gobbet of meat in his direction, and spiteful, the creature snapped at it, tilted sideways, and then immediately landed, finished swallowing, and started grooming his feathers.

“Well, you can stop for now,” Valya told it obstinately. “But don’t think we’re going to let you be lazy forever.” The griffon ducked his head under her arm in apology. “I guess you guys get scared, too, huh? Never heard of a griffon afraid of heights, but… well, we‘re both learning as we go, aren‘t we?” She sighed. “That’s enough for the day. No more food. They’re going to be sore and sleepy. As they land, let’s guide them back downstairs and get them settled.”

Hawke wandered downstairs slowly, drifting, her thoughts up in the clouds with the griffons. “It must be quite a thing, to fly,” she said to Max.

“No thanks,” Max cleared his throat. “I’m not fond of heights either. Stubborn up there has the right idea, to my way of thinking.”

“I’ve always wanted to fly,” Hawke admitted. “I dream about it, sometimes. Freedom, you know?”

She turned the corner, and Stroud was waiting. They caught each other’s eyes and Max sighed, “And that’s my cue, I think. Sleep well, both of you.” He strolled on, and Hawke paused by her door, waiting for Stroud to talk.

“May I come in?” Stroud asked.

“Sure,” Hawke shoved the door inward, and blinked. There was a letter - opened - on the table. She grabbed it, and sighed with joy.

“Varric?”

“Yep. Bastard is still alive and…” she grinned, “back in Kirkwall. As Viscount, no less!” She laughed with delight. “No better person to get stuck with a crappy job.” She read rapidly. “Holy Shit of the Maker, Stroud. He says that the earthquakes are caused by a Titan! What the fucking Void is a Titan?”

“No idea.” Stroud leaned up against the wall. “I have never heard of them.”

“Huh. Anyway, he says that they should be stopping. Ferelden has been having them for months, apparently. We must have only gotten the stronger ones? Or does the ground shift in different places if there‘s an earthquake somewhere else in the world?” She looked up to see Stroud watching her. “What is it? Do I have griffon feathers in my hair or something? Or little bits of meat?”

“No. I was just…” Stroud swallowed. “I have… regrets about… before. I wondered if you felt the same?”

Hawke let the letter fall from her fingers. “You turned me down, Stroud. I thought the ship had sailed. You weren’t interested in what I could offer.”

“I might be… reconsidering,” he looked down. “Marian, we might die here. Without those doors, without protection, without griffons to carry us, we won’t be able to escape if the darkspawn attack. Not unless the Chamberlain lets us leave.”

“So… you want to have ‘oh-sweet-Maker-we’re-all-going-to-die’ sex?” If her voice was incredulous, she had an excuse. She hadn’t pegged the Moustache on being hedonistic.

“Not exactly,” Stroud cleared his throat. “Actually, what I wanted was to say…” he shook his head. “Never mind. I think, once again, you and I are of different minds.”

“Probably,” Hawke shifted a foot to one side awkwardly. “Jean-Marc, you’re a good…”

“Do not say ‘friend‘,” Stroud stood. “I am that, of course. It goes without saying.”

“I shouldn’t have…” Hawke bent down to gather up the scattered pages of her letter, and looked up. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Stroud swallowed. “That is that, then.” He turned to go, but Hawke stopped him, her eyes back on Varric’s scrawl as he turned to walk out the door. “What is it, my friend?”

“Varric’s sources say that the Divine is planning an Exalted Council,” Hawke whispered. “To discuss the possibility of an Exalted March,” she raised her eyes to his. “Jean-Marc…”

“Then Andraste preserve us all.” And he left her room. “Especially you, my Champion.”

Hawke closed her eyes, and wished she knew how to Chant.

Maybe praying would help the guilt.

 


	16. The Tables Turn

“Shit,” Max slammed his letter down as he entered the alcove where Stroud, Hawke and Genitivi were consulting in undertones. “We’re going to have to move up the timetable. And it‘s going to have to be me that leaves, after all.”

“Why, what’s happened now?” Hawke breathed a little quicker, her anxiety level increasing exponentially. Could anything else go wrong? But she knew better than to say that out loud.

Max tapped the letter with two fingers. “My sister is getting married.” He smiled sideways, and met her eyes, his own excited and happy. “My Friends say it’s happening at Halamshiral.”

“Merde, I lost the bet,” Stroud reached to his waist, and pulled three sovereigns out of his pouch, clanking them into Hawke’s hand. “I thought for sure it was a fling. Get that to Varric, will you?”

“He owes me five sovereigns,” Hawke smirked. “I’m keeping it.” The Moustache twitched. “Now he only owes me two. So where is your all-touched Herald if she‘s planning to get herself hitched?”

“They‘re out of the Deep Roads, and back at Skyhold while things are being wrapped up,” Max clarified, worry in his voice. “I only have a few weeks to get to Halamshiral before her wedding.” His forehead creased. “I’m going to have to take the Deep Roads again. I‘ll never make it in time, otherwise.”

“You’ll never make it on your own,” Hawke protested. “The Deep Roads…”

“I’ll write once I’m out of here, have some Friends meet me halfway,” Max shook his head. “I knew Cullen would marry her eventually, he’s just that kind of guy, but I… I thought she’d wait until I could be there. Figures she‘d get impatient now.” He had a fond smile on his face. “Least she’s getting what she wants, finally. She‘s earned it.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry about this. But I have to go. She’s… she’s my little sister.” He stared at them, a mixture of guilt and defiance. “I’m leaving tonight. I’ll ask Carver for the rope myself, and Valya for her assistance. My departure will take all the focus off of you, Hawke, so you can keep poking about... And I’ll send help back. As soon as I can.”

Stroud nodded sagely, “We understand. Family is the most important thing…”

“I’ll provide a distraction,” Hawke interrupted. “If the Chamberlain is yelling at me, you can get out of here easier.” She was tired of being so damn good all the time anyway. “Good behavior doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Take this with you,” Genitivi slipped a letter out from inside his coat. “With the lack of correspondence lately, I’ve been unable to pass it on - but you can deliver it? There are many important things in this letter.”

“I’m on a strict timetable, Brother,” Max began to argue, and then sighed, and held out his hand. “But I’ll try. I won’t be able to breathe a word, unless this… compulsion wears off. It hasn‘t yet.”

“Give it to the Revered Mother in the Cumberland Chantry,” stressed Genitivi. “It has everything I’ve discovered so far in the archives here. Amazing, horrible things, about the Chantry, about the Chant itself. I have… connections. Ones that can - will - help, if we can just get the word to Cumberland.”

Max took the packet at last, with a short nod. “Let’s do this, then. Just after sunset. I’ll take the battlements from above the griffon’s aerie.” He frowned at the Brother for a moment, “what did you discover?”

Genitivi smiled, and for someone that served the Chantry, it was a wicked, wicked smile. “That Silence is only the beginning of the Dissonant Verses. The entire thing has been changed - the Chantry couldn‘t erase the copies of the Chant here. Why do you think I wanted to come in the first place? And I’ve read several reports that the Chantry itself murdered a Brother Burkel in Orzamaar when he tried to open a Chantry there, according to the remnants of his congregation. The Casteless, mostly, so they were not believed,” the man’s eyes were hard. “With that and additional evidence, I think it suggests that the Chantry isn’t interested in spreading the Chant of Light to the four corners of the world.”

Hawke sat back abruptly, “Well, shit.”

“You can say that again,” the Brother smiled again. “But that’s what I’ve suspected all along. I pursue knowledge, remember? Sometimes knowledge is dangerous, sometimes fact is deadly, and sometimes the truth kills.” He stared at them solemnly. “I have left copies of my research in my belongings if I die in the pursuit of my calling.”

Stroud nodded at him solemnly. “I salute you, Brother. You are a brave man.”

Hawke sighed, “Just when I was pretty sure I had already seen my share of martyrs.”

“I have no intention of being martyred,” Genitivi smiled, but his eyes were determined. “Knowledge does no good unless it is shared.”

<LLR>

Just at sunset, Hawke found herself outside the Chamberlain’s office, willing herself to knock. She closed her eyes, and lifted her hand.

“Champion, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure?” the man himself was behind her.

“I wanted to discuss lyrium with you, Ser,” Hawke tried for meekness. “It seems to me that we… or I, at least, could share our information a little better.”

The man narrowed his eyes in suspicious. “Why the sudden change in heart?”

Hawke fidgeted. “I’ve been told that the Inquisitor wants to consider Weisshaupt an ally,” she lied. “She wants me to talk about what I know, in hopes that you can learn to trust those of us that are your… guests.” It was a weak lie, since he read their mail - but it was barely conceivable that a message could have been coded.

“I see,” the Chamberlain pressed his lips together. “This doesn’t have anything to do with her brother’s attempt at fleeing, does it?” Hawke’s eyes flashed with worry. “Ah. A distraction. Oh well, Lady Hawke, I’m afraid I’ve already been informed. One of the Hossberg mages - I think your brother is acquainted with her, Berrith is her name - told me this afternoon that she heard of his little plot. Touching, really, that he should try so hard to be with his sister at such a time as her wedding.” His smile was hard. “Unfortunate, that he should miss it after everything. He’s being escorted to the cells, as we speak.”

“He just wants to see his sister married,” Hawke fiddled with the hem of her tunic idly. “It’s not a crime.” She wished, hoped, that somehow Max would manage to dodge the trap. “You could let him go.”

“I cannot allow that. You know why.”

It was time to start some fires, evidently. “I know that you’re holding your First Warden in those same cells!” Hawke’s voice became strident, and she clutched a flame in her fist sending a small ember into one of the piles on the tiled floor. “I know that you are a traitor to your Order, and the vows the Wardens take upon their Joining. I know that you’re taking an enormous risk with letting a red lyrium corrupted individual crystallize in that cell!”

The Chamberlain hissed, “I am doing what must be done. The First Warden - the new First Warden - is too busy making friends in the palace to do the real work. I care for my brothers and sisters. I see to everything so he doesn‘t have to. I should be First, not him…” he noticed the flame and backed slowly.

“I can put that out,” Hawke stood still, and showed the flame in her hand. “If you let Max leave. Or, I can start more fires.” She flicked another ember off her middle finger, and the next pile of papers began to smoke. “See what I mean?”

“I’ll… I’ll call for a Templar.” The man reached out his hand and tried to summon ice, but it failed him. His face wrinkled in distress. “These are important papers…”

“So, you don’t have an ice affinity. Interesting. We don’t need any Templars. All you have to do is tell me Max can leave.”

“He has already left,” Stroud announced clearly, stepping around the corner. “I’m afraid your guards are overcome, Chamberlain. May I escort you to your new accommodations?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Stroud pulled his arms behind his back. “Weisshaupt will fall into pieces without me. You’ll see!”

“You’ve given us no choice,” Hawke sighed, and finally summoned a cone of cold, the snow drifting down and putting out the flames entirely, in a puff of acrid smoke. She coughed, waving her hand. “Wonderful timing, Jean-Marc.”

“My pleasure, Marian,” he didn’t meet her eyes. “I’ll take him down through the throne room. I believe it’s closer, and the cells there are more comfortable, until we can arrange for a formal trial.” He glanced up briefly. “I’ll meet you upstairs, shortly. I’m afraid… I’m afraid there will be many repercussions from this night.”

Hawke paced until Stroud finally entered her room. “Jean-Marc.”

“You are unharmed?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“I’m fine. Not enough smoke to cause issues.” She cleared her throat reflexively. “You?”

“He cannot harm me with words.” Stroud watched her solemnly, and for once, the Moustache was completely still. “What shall we do with the mage informant?”

“Berrith? She was just out for petty revenge. Max turned her down once too often,” Hawke dismissed her. “Yes, she’s a pill and an annoyance, but I hardly think we need to shut her up on bread and water. Perhaps a lengthy time-out in her quarters, or extra library time. She’s a lover, not a scholar. Or I could beat her ass in magic combat in our next training session. It’s not important. The important thing is that… Max is safe? He‘s gone?”

“He saw the guards waiting on the battlements. So… he alerted me, and then together, we disabled the doorman, and he slipped out. He’s probably halfway down the path by now. With no one on the battlements he can move without fear of harm.”

“It would be faster going down.”

“In that, you are correct.” Stroud stared at his hands, clasped together loosely in front of him. “Marian, I intend to let you and Genitivi both leave. Immediately, if you wish. You could catch up to Maxwell. I… my duty is here. I must remain, see the griffons raised, and the doors repaired. In lieu of an acting Chamberlain, the job falls to me. I am not the most Senior, but I‘m going to offer, all the same.”

Hawke sat down suddenly, her bed bouncing with the impact. “You want me to go?”

“I’ll have to ask you to keep our secrets, of course,” he seemed worried and drawn. Older than he had that morning. “Especially about our weaknesses, and the griffons. The latter just until we make it public. But I’m not going to demand, or imprison you here.” He laughed, “You don’t take to confinement well.”

Hawke frowned, “But with you in charge, I’m not a prisoner. And I’ve been so busy being annoying, that I’ve barely looked for what I came here for. And there’s the red lyrium, and the darkspawn threat… you could use me.”

Stroud’s eyebrows were heavy. “Are you saying you want to stay?” He laughed, short. “I will never understand you, Marian.”

“Eh, understanding me is overrated,” Hawke shrugged. “No one really gets me anyway. Except maybe for Varric. And you see where that’s got him. Trouble, plain and simple.”

“You do attract trouble,” Stroud said softly, as he turned to leave. “I will go inform Genitivi that he is free to depart, in that case. And Marian… thank you.” The Moustache smiled. “I appreciate your assistance. If the darkspawn come, we will need every hand.”

<LLR>

Genitivi left the very next morning, with a small escort of Wardens volunteering to take him as far as his ‘associates’, promising to write.

The griffons - now allowed to fly freely above the fortress - pretended to divebomb him playfully as he left. Hawke watched him pick up a single shed griffon feather, and tuck in

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave?” Stroud asked soberly.

“I’ll go soon,” Hawke assured him. “But I’m not leaving until you have news from the builders.” She turned aside briskly. “Plus, I suspect that my missing answers have been in the Chamberlain’s office all along. He seems the sort to keep his secrets close to his chest, don't you think? I have some filing to do. Lots and lots of filing. What fun, right?”

Stroud chuckled, and turned to follow her. “Because I am a true friend, I will assist, despite my general distaste for paperwork of all kinds.”

Hawke shoved him slightly, “Aw, Stroud, first you take glass for me, and then you help me file? It must be love.”

Stroud looked upward, “I have never denied it, my friend.” He smiled, however, and somehow, Hawke felt... lighter.

It was a pleasant feeling, to know that once again she was free to run.

But somehow, running wasn't quite as important as it had been before, even with Stroud's confession. She needed answers first.

 


	17. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... this gets very briefly NSFW. Less than a page, all things considered. I am upgrading the rating to Mature, so that people are warned, but seriously, it's over in a few sentences.

It said a lot about how messy the Chamberlain’s office was that she was still working on sorting papers with Valya’s and Stroud’s help a full month later. She was there, with the doors wide open, when she heard a familiar voice echoing through the cavernous hall.

“I’m Warden Rainer, based out of Val Chevin, here to report to the First Warden,” the gruff voice carried, and Hawke dropped the papers she was holding, and crossed the distance with Fadestep, appearing in a second in front of the familiar face.

“You,” she said through her teeth. Hawke balled her hand up and let the fist fly, contacting Thom Rainer’s cheek and half his nose. He staggered back, and fell, as she had concentrated no small amount of magical force behind it. “I deserved that,” the man agreed, checking his nose for blood.

“You think?” Her jaw ached. “How many people died? How many?”

“Collier and his wife, and his children, and his men at arms.” His eyes were dull with the memory, and the lines of his face were deep. “You think this is the first time someone’s swung at me since the truth came out?” He winced. “One of the better ones, though. Did you use magic, or are you just that strong?”

“I don’t pull my punches, magic or otherwise,” Hawke slumped. “Did Varric send you?” She tightened her fist again.

Thom held up his hands in defense. “No. But he… he did tell me he thought we’d be good for each other. He said you blamed yourself for the deaths of children. And… I wasn‘t needed. With the Inquisition. At the moment. I… was hoping to be sent to the Exalted Council as a Warden representative. Val Chevin agreed, and so… here I am, formally requesting permission from Weisshaupt.”

Hawke winced. “Shit. Talk about pulling punches, Varric.”

“You tried to save them, he said. That‘s one up on me. I didn‘t even realize they were there until it was too late.”

“Varric says lots of things,” Hawke observed dryly. “You might have noticed that.” She stepped backwards. “Find me when you get done with your report to Stroud. I wouldn’t mind catching up.” She lifted a single eyebrow and the man’s brow furrowed.

“Why would I report to Stroud?”

“You’ll see… but before you find the acting Chamberlain, you might want to head up to the aerie. Ask anyone - they‘ll show you the way.”

A few hours later, he knocked on her door, eyes hazy with wonder. “So… you’ve seen them?” Hawke shoved a bottle of Grey Whiskey in his direction. “If you have, you’ll need this.”

“I have,” he shook his head and grabbed the whiskey and drank directly, wiping his hand on the back of his mouth. “Shit.”

“Congratulations, Warden Rainier,” she smirked, “on the baby griffons. It‘s about five boys and 8 girls, by my count… assuming that Valya has identified the sexes right.”

“Not such babies, anymore,” he marveled. “They can fly. I saw them.” His eyes were starry. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

“You’ve never looked at me like that,” Hawke teased.

“They’ve never punched me,” the man’s lips pulled up. “Yet.” He settled himself into the chair by her fireplace. “So… would you like the news now, or later? We only saw Max for a day at the wedding - he said he had things to do, people to see. He missed his sister’s trial - possibly on purpose, though the verdict hasn’t been passed down yet, due to a not-so-small Qunari invasion. Asta took care of that right quick. But the Inquisitor lost her arm to the mark. That bastard Solas turned out to be a right Blighter, and took it away with a snap of his fingers. She‘s reeling, as you might imagine.”

“Shit,” Hawke grabbed for the bottle and drank. “But Varric’s all right? Nobody‘s tried to assassinate the Viscount recently? No news of Bianca?”

“Absolutely, and none at all,” the Warden chuckled. “I’ve some letters that you might want to read. You’ll want the news first hand, not second from me.”

“What?”

The man shook his head, “I don’t want to spoil it for you, milady.” His eyes were warm with good humor. “You look good, despite everything. I would have thought being stuck here would be cramping your style!”

“Oh, I’m cramped,” Hawke laughed. “But… I’m finding out all sorts of little things about the Wardens.” She leaned in. “I don’t suppose you’re interested?”

The man hesitated. “In what you found out,” he cleared his throat, “or in you?”

Hawke eyed him for a moment, and then grinned, “No strings?”

“Don’t believe in strings. No point, with this life. They tell me I‘ve got 20 years, at my age. If I‘m lucky.”

“You’re on,” she stood up and felt his arms catch around her. “Will you demonstrate the peach thing again? I‘m rather in the mood for a demonstration.”

The man grinned, “If you’d like.” He bent his head, and Hawke wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s nice to see you again, Champion.”

“Likewise.” Hawke pressed up and into his mouth. “Hero.”

<LLR>

“This is despicable,” growled the Warden several hours later as she shook over him. “Torturing a man this way… I want to sink into you, balls-deep, and never come out.”

Hawke shivered at his words. “Oh… oh, right there…” she took him into her mouth and sucked, hard before sliding to the end of his crown.

“Maker’s Balls…” he pushed her up and off of him, and surged forward to kiss her madly, and Hawke followed, caught up in the moment. “You’ll be the death of me, milady.”

“Nah,” she flipped them both over. “Not that out of control. I‘m not even going to singe you. This is just a little fun, that‘s all.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.” He groaned, and filled her, sliding upward until she cried out his name.

There was a knock at the door. “Come back later,” Hawke laughed and curved down to kiss Thom again. “Bit busy.”

“No!” Stroud burst in, fuming. Hawke slid off Thom and winced at the look in his eyes, fumbling for a blanket that didn‘t exist - as they had long since kicked it off the bed. “I see,” he pressed his lips together and tossed a gauntlet to the ground. “I demand satisfaction, Warden Rainier. For the impersonation of Warden Gordon Blackwall, and…” he carefully did not look at her, “other things.”

“All right,” Thom sat up, shaking from the interruption, but oddly resigned. Hawke watched, in shock and disbelief, “Let me find my pants.”

“What, just like that?” she protested. “Can’t it wait?”

“Sorry, it’s a honorable challenge,” Thom shrugged. “I’ll be back.”

“Inner courtyard, the one with the fountain, half an hour,” Stroud snapped and left.

Hawke threw on a long tunic that barely covered her essentials and ran after him. “Jean-Marc!”

“Champion,” he didn’t stop walking.

“Stroud, its not like… It was only a little fun.” Her excuse sounded empty, even to her. She wrapped her arms around herself in defense.

“I know,” he finally turned to face her. “I know its not like… He can offer you what I cannot. That does not mean it doesn’t hurt, or that I need not challenge him. He may be a Warden now, but I cannot justify his years of duplicity without a challenge. I’m surprised that you can. But I suppose that enough deprivation…”

Hawke hit him on the shoulder. “Knock that off, Stroud. You knew I wasn’t interested in anything permanent.”

“Not with me, anyway,” Stroud lifted his chin. “Or are you willing to talk about the Prince of Starkhaven?”

Hawke backed up slowly, her arms tightening. “Who told you?” He turned and walked away, briskly, as he replied.

“Carver. You told me to ask him. I’ve known for months. It’s him, isn’t it? And quite honestly, me challenging Rainier is as much on his behalf as for my Brother Gordon Blackwall, or for you. If the Prince was any kind of real man, he would have hunted you down and done it himself. He would have, if he valued you. You are wasted on him.”

“I am not a victim, Jean-Marc. I‘m a grown woman who makes my own choices.” She shivered. Weisshaupt without pants was chilly. “I wanted this.”

“No, no, you looked… happy,” he admitted. “But Rainier is taking advantage of your loneliness, and your broken heart, all the same. No honorable chevalier would do such a thing.”

Thom appeared in the courtyard, “First blood, I assume?”

“That will do,” Stroud swallowed. “Academie rules?”

“Suits me fine,” he rumbled.

“I’ll let you guys work out your testosterone poisoning then,” snarled Hawke. “Come find me when you’re done so I can finish the job.” She turned and left, stomping down the hallway, and scattering random Wardens in her wake.

The two men saluted each other, and began. The sound of steel followed her back to her room.

An hour later, two punch-drunk men reeled through her door - without knocking. Thom toppled in first, bleeding from a cut across his cheekbone, blood matted into his beard. “Milady,” he bowed.

“Marian,” Stroud stumbled in next. “I believe we have settled our differences.”

“I believe you’re both idiots,” she snapped, and grabbed the bottle of alcohol and a cloth. “Who won?”

“We both did,” the Moustache twitched, and Hawke rolled her eyes. “Rainier caught me across my ribs just as I slashed his cheek.”

“And then the poncy bastard punched me,” Thom enthused. “Not so bad, your Stroud. Quite a fist. Felt a few, lately. Becoming a bit of a connoisseur.” He laughed, like it was funny. The Moustache twitched.

“Yes, well, my testicles still ache,” Stroud settled himself on a chair, and pulled his shirt over his head. “It’s a shallow cut, Hawke. Shouldn’t need stitches. No elfroot, please. A scar from an honorable duel should remain.” Thom nodded in agreement.

“Whatever,” Hawke settled the cloth over his ribs. “I’m going to take both of you out after you heal the hard way. You know I can’t heal worth a shit.” She grabbed another cloth and doused it with alcohol and placed it over the gash on Thom’s cheek. “You’re both asses.”

“And we’re both your asses, apparently,” grinned Thom, catching her hand and kissing it. “You two have quite the mutual admiration going…”

“Is that what you call it?” Hawke snorted. “I’m not Orlesian. I don’t buy into that courtly love nonsense. And Stroud knows it. I’ve had enough of 'lovers' who won’t put out. Sebastian was…”

Stroud froze, “Ah. There it is. The name finally passes her lips, Thom. And Carver‘s theory is verified. Our lady needs physical reciprocation of her regard.”

“I heard it, Jean-Marc,” Thom grinned and winced. “Ow. If I could move my face more, I‘d suggest a drink to curse the man who holds the Champion‘s heart.” He scowled, "Always did hate Starkhaven. Pretentious bastards, every one."

“You’re making it worse,” Hawke sighed and gave up, sitting on the bed. “So… no hard feelings.”

“Not on my part,” Stroud assured her. "I am satisfied."

“At least not those parts,” Thom guffawed and grabbed the alcohol to take a swig. “My balls still ache, too. For a completely different reason.” His eyebrows went up and Hawke backhanded his head. “Ouch.”

“You deserve every twinge,” she told both of them. “Stroud, did you honestly think you needed to defend my honor?”

“No, your honor was intact,” Stroud bowed his head regally to Thom. “I did, however, need to defend my own… feelings.”

“I didn’t ask you…”

Thom guffawed, “A classic case of unrequited love, is it? That sucks the Maker’s Balls, Jean-Marc.”

“It’s better than rutting away with anything that offers…”

“A lot less frustrating, though. I’ve been there, trust me,” Thom sighed, long and drawn out. “A love that can never be returned. Whether it's different stations in life, a heart given to another… a million different reasons that you can never be together. Romance feeds the soul in all its many forms, don‘t it?”

"Yes, you understand," Stroud echoed his sigh.

“Piss off,” Hawke snarled. “If it weren’t for the Moustache…”

Stroud leaned in, and placed his hand on her knee, “You said you’ve never lied to me. Don’t start now, Marian. It’s not the Moustache, as much as it offends you. You are afraid to commit to someone that cares about you. You‘re afraid of feeling." Thom nodded his head sagely, and drank very deeply before passing the bottle to Stroud. “Thank you,” Stroud tipped the bottle back, and a third disappeared. Hawke blinked. She had never seen him drink like this. He was a sipper, not a gulper. It was… oddly arousing, seeing him so abandoned. And that way led trouble, she reminded herself strictly. “You should leave this place, Marian. Go back to Kirkwall. Or better yet, go to Starkhaven, confront the man you love with all the things he has done to you and the people you care about. Eke out your revenge upon him, and live happily ever after.”

With that, the appeal was gone. “If you fucking start singing some tragic Orlesian love song, I’m going to gut you, and throw you to the darkspawn in the basement,” Hawke said through clenched teeth. “It’s none of your fucking business what happened between me and the Prince of Starkhaven.”

“See what I’m dealing with,” Stroud gestured to her, his eyes gleaming like stars as he confessed his deepest emotions to Thom. “She’s impossible. And lovely. And can drink me under the table. And will kill me in open combat if I don’t give way. What is not to love?”

“And she’s got a pair of tits that you wouldn’t believe,” Thom agreed. "Like grapefruit."

The Moustache twitched, “I saw them. I must agree, my friend.”

“You could at least wait until I leave the room to start discussing my assets.” A smile was starting to play around her lips, and she grabbed the bottle out of Stroud’s limp fingers while he was distracted by staring at her chest. “But you can talk more about how amazing I am in other ways, if you want. It‘s been a while since anyone paid me a compliment.” She glanced down at her lap, “Thom, I don’t suppose you have a set of Wicked Grace cards?”

He winked, “Varric wouldn’t let me leave Val Royeaux without them.” He stood, swaying. “I’ll just fetch them, shall I?”

"A wonderful idea," Hawke sighed. Apparently, their other activities were indefinitely postponed.

She probably deserved it.

 


	18. The Words That Lead Us Home

Five nights later, she was shaken awake by a sterner than usual Stroud. “Marian. Marian, you must wake. The darkspawn…”

She swung her legs down to the ground, and grabbed her pants. “Where? Which door?”

Stroud made a pained noise. “It matters not. You’re getting out of here.”

“Fucking Void I am,” she contradicted. “I’m not abandoning you now.”

Stroud grabbed her shoulders, “I will not let you sacrifice yourself. Not like this. You’ve given enough.”

“It’s my fucking choice, Jean-Marc,” she snarled. “Now - take me to the darkspawn.”

He shook his head and led her out, Valya outside the door with her staff in hand. She fidgeted. “Hawke, I don’t have a lot of combat experience…”

“This is what we’ve been practicing for,” Hawke assured her. “Where are the others? Berrith?”

“Berrith is panicking in her room,” Valya’s mouth turned down. “I don’t think she’ll be any use to us. But Weisshaupt is my home. I want to fight. Whatever Caronel says.”

“Would the griffons be able to carry us?”

Valya frowned, “I’d hate to risk it. Maybe one at a time?”

“Shame the darkspawn didn’t fucking wait until they were bigger, then,” Hawke braced herself as they reached the bottom of the many flights that led into the bowels of the fortress. “What’s your affinity?”

“Ice, I suppose?” Valya swallowed.

“All right, you cast first then,” Hawke smiled like the bird of prey her name represented. “I’m going to show you a couple of tricks.”

“I brought the mages,” Stroud called out to his brothers, who had braced themselves in a semicircle around their barricade. “Let us through!”

The ten or so Wardens at the door parted, and allowed them to pass. “Shouldn’t we be at the back?” Valya whispered nervously.

“Not my style, and not how I’ve been teaching you,” Hawke grinned dangerously. “Cast Cone of Cold, Valya. I’ll show you what I mean. Be ready!” she called back to the warriors and rogues. “This is going to shock the shit out of them, so archers, prepare! NOT FIRE ARROWS,” she instructed at the top of her lungs. “Keep it to ice! Turning back to her companion she said, softer. “Begin.”

Valya gathered her mana, and faced the darkspawn just beginning to try to shove through the barrier. “Now?” The first three broke the crates that had been stacked up.

“Now,” Hawke confirmed, and as soon as the other mage had released her spell, Hawke cast Firestorm, followed with Chain Lightening. With satisfaction, she watched the ice first melt, and then the Lightening, amplified by the water, arc several times between each darkspawn. They fell, one after the other, and the first wave was over. “Retreat,” she called to Valya. “Regain your mana. Let the warriors mop these up."

Valya’s eyes were sparking, “That was…”

“I know, right?” Hawke uncorked a lyrium bottle, and sipped, and handed it to Valya. “Go ahead, drink this. The warriors will take care of the next wave, but they’ll need a break, and then we’re up again.”

The girl fumbled with the lyrium. “I’ve never…”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Hawke sighed. “Just a sip. Don’t overindulge. Not in this, anyway,” she smirked. “I should warn you, your boyfriend will probably be really turned on after he sees you fight like this. Non-mages tend to get… frisky after seeing us fight.”

“He’s not my…”

“Then he will be after this, trust me.” Hawke laughed as the next wave of darkspawn fell. “We’re up, my friend. Are you ready?”

The girl nodded, and strode forward, holding her staff at the ready. Hawke felt a surge of pride at her stance - it reminded her of Bethany. She closed her eyes, and focused. “Now.”

They fought for several hours, and when finally, the darkspawn trickled to an end, Valya panted, “I’m out of mana. Completely. Hawke… I can’t… that was...”

“You don’t have to do anything else,” Hawke smiled. “You did well.”

Caronel rushed up, “Val… are you…” he faced her, holding her by her shoulders. “Are you injured? Did the blood get in your mouth? I forgot to tell you to keep your mouth shut…”

She laughed at him. “I’m fine. They never got close enough. Not to me.” He pulled her in against his chest. “You, however,” she muttered, “are positively sticky.”

He retreated with horror, letting go so fast she almost fell. “I’m sorry…”

“Is it yours?” she asked gently.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe some of it. We heal fast.”

“Then go upstairs, so we can check.” She guided him away.

Stroud stood at some distance, frowning, and Hawke approached. “We will fall, if this continues,” he whispered urgently. "We have several injured already. I can send someone with a message to the Legion in Kal-Shirok, perhaps, so that they turn their people in our direction, but...

Hawke nodded in understanding. “Evacuate, then?”

“Fuck no,” A dwarf with elaborate tattoos on his face grimaced at the two of them. “We blow up the tunnels first. Topside structure will suffer, but we’ll… we’ll live. We can rebuild. Sort of. Without the darkspawn to interfere.”

Stroud nodded, gravely. “Prepare the charges, then.” He walked a few steps away and called out. “I want everyone but the sappers upstairs in the great hall in half an hour. We have decisions to make, and little time. Tend your wounds, and meet me there. Dismissed!”

He strode away, determined, and Hawke followed him. “Jean-Marc… what about the prisoners? The First Warden? The Chamberlain? What happens to them when the walls cave in?” Her living nightmare played briefly in front of her eyes, remembering the walls shaking, and the rocks falling. She wouldn't wish the fate on her worst enemy.

“Rainier,” he called, “You’re with me.” He closed his eyes and stopped for a moment. “I don’t have the people to guard prisoners left out of their cells, Hawke.” He faced her, grim and unyielding. “I’m sorry, but they will die here. The decision is on my head.”

Hawke only nodded, “Very well, I understand,” and she rushed up and away to her own room, to pack.

It’s not as if she hadn’t had to make tough choices herself. Their deaths would haunt Stroud. He was a good man.

They reconvened in the hall before a half hour was up. “I’m sending non-combatants away from Weisshaupt,” Stroud announced.

“Thank the Maker,” Berrith whimpered. “It’s about time…” Valya turned and slapped her. “What was that for?” The girl was actually surprised at the animosity. "What did I do?"

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” she hissed. Caronel wrapped his arm around her. “I’m not going,” she projected over the crowd. “Weisshaupt is home. I’m staying. Don’t argue, Caronel,” she interrupted before he could speak. “I can fight. That’s what I’ve been training to do, every day.”

“Then the rest of the mages should gather their things, if they do not feel the same. Take only what you need, as you will be carrying all of it,” Stroud ran his fingers through his hair, and turned to Hawke. “You’re going with them,” he ordered.

“I’m a combatant,” Hawke protested. “You need…”

“You’re going to escort them to safety, and if the explosions are effective, we will send someone to retrieve you.” He faced her with his pained eyes - always so sad. “Marian, I can’t trust a Warden with their safety. I need every one of us, in case the darkspawn come back. They will come back. We‘ll follow you as soon as we can.” He smiled slightly, “besides, you’ll need to take a few other things with you.”

Hawke paled, and then smiled, “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

He cast his eyes upward, towards the stair that lead to the aerie. “Someone has to keep them safe.”

<LLR>

By the time the mages met in the aerie, they were, by and large, too frightened to be troublesome, though Hawke had to dump out Berrith’s huge knapsack. “Honestly?” Hawke lifted a huge book of what looked like elven pornography out of the pile. “This is what you can’t live without?” Hawke sighed, and stuffed a change of clothes back in, and handed her a simple staff, “Your priorities are screwed up, Berrith.” She slipped in the food rations they had all been given, and slung it on the teenager’s back, mentally reminding herself of when her father had done a similar thing to her, just before they left for Lothering. Only she had been even younger. “It’s time to grow up.” She couldn't say whether it was more for herself or Berrith.

The girl didn’t protest, just pouted stubbornly, and clutched the strap with her free hand.

Valya faced her with halters. “This is a risk,” she warned. “The griffons aren’t used to carrying people… and the diary, it insinuates that they bond with a specific Warden, until one of them dies.”

“I know,” Hawke cleared her throat. “But they know me, at least. We‘ve got to try, right?” She approached a griffon with a halter, cooing. “Come on, beautiful,” she whispered. “You’ve got to go for a ride…” The griffon backed up and squawked, and then snapped at the dangling strap.

Thom frowned, “Let me try,” he grabbed the bridle, and the griffon let him attach it, purring at him. “That’s a clever girl,” he smiled and stroked it gently. “Up we get?” Before Berrith could complain, Thom had swung her up. The creature stamped a bit, but accepted it, eyeing the Warden expectantly. “All right, one down,” he chuckled. Berrith’s eyes went wide with fear.

“It’s moving,” she whispered. “Make it stop moving… Sweet Andraste, you… you aren‘t going to push me off the battlements on this thing, are you?” The last comment was directed towards Hawke.

Hawke smiled wickedly, and turned away, but the other Wardens were already putting the halters and attaching reins. Valya handed out halters as necessary. “This is your ride,” Thom held out the next griffon’s lead, “milady.”

“I still think someone else should do this,” Hawke stroked the creature in front of her nervously. “Are we sure they won’t take two? I don‘t even ride horses well. Lack of practice.”

Just then, Berrith’s griffon managed to buck and throw her off. She backed up, scooting along the floor, cursing, “I’m not going anywhere near that thing,” she announced. “I’d rather be eaten by darkspawn.”

Hawke hauled her back to her feet. “Then you can walk out of here,” she told her. “Go. Out the front door and down. You might want to run. Darkspawn are fast.”

The girl took off for the entrance hall, at top speed, despite her impractical shoes. Hawke sighed and shook her head. “They won’t carry us, Thom.” Around her a few other mages were scrambling down from the griffons to follow her before they suffered the same indignity.

Valya cursed, “I should have remembered,” her eyes were angry, “I blame myself. Isseya’s diary suggested that they would carry passengers with their partners, but not otherwise, unless they were trusted implicitly.”

“Will they carry two?” Hawke asked again, desperately.

“We can’t spare the Wardens,” Thom sighed.

“Then… on foot,” Hawke grabbed the lead of the griffon closest to her, and started walking down the stairs. It’s feet, awkward on land, scrabbled at the stairs which were too narrow for it to hold. “It’s no good,” she announced, and guided it back up. “Do we have a Plan C?”

“We fly them out, whether they like it or not, darkspawn or no,” Thom climbed on, and winced. “Ouch. This is… I’ve never missed a saddle so much. This won‘t come easy. My parts may never be the same again.”

“Don’t hamper the movement of the wings,” Valya instructed. “Hawke…”

“I’ll go with the mages on foot,” Hawke sighed regretfully with a last stroke of the closest animal. “And I’ll have Stroud send up volunteers. We can’t leave them here during the explosion. Thom is right.”

Valya nodded. "I'll stay and help. You go."

Hawke peeled herself away to head down the stairs. Stroud was speaking to the head sapper. “Sorry, my friend,” she started, “but the griffons won’t let anyone but Wardens close enough to fly them. Rainier’s asking for volunteers.”

Stroud blinked, “To fly the griffons to safety?”

Hawke instructed, “They want Wardens. Otherwise I‘d be up there. And I would suggest that you might consider your future, first - because Valya says this is it. They bond for the rest of your already short lives. Don‘t make the commitment if you‘re not going to follow through.”

“I’ll make that deal,” the Moustache smiled. “I’m hardly essential personnel to blow up Weisshaupt, Harlin informs me. So… if anyone else is interested, follow me.” He nodded briefly to her, and led the way back up the steps, double time.

Hawke slipped out the front door, and took a moment to breathe deeply, before starting down the stairs. “Sis!” Carver caught up.

“They send you away, too?”

“Yup.”

“The Hawke kids, alone again,” Hawke’s voice was harsh, but she stepped a little lighter. “Want to help me herd mages to safety?”

Carver laughed a little. “Sounds like a losing proposition.” For a few minutes, they pushed harder, seeing the mages far below with the rest of Weisshaupt‘s non-combatants, and wanting to catch up. Carver was the first to whistle in appreciation, after a quick glance up. “Sis, look up.” Hawke lifted her head and gaped in awe.

From the battlements far overhead, the griffons were taking flight with their new riders, one after the other, in a brilliant show of feathers and leonine grace, wings buffeting the air. It was hardly the time to admire the sight, but Hawke did anyway. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Hawke whispered.

“Are those tears in your eyes?” Carver asked incredulously.

“Shut up,” Hawke sniffed. “Come on. We don’t have much time. Mages to herd, people to save…”

“Oh yeah,” Carver coughed. “Um… are you coming back?”

Hawke stumbled. “Why would you ask that?”

“You look happier than you have in months, Sis. You didn’t find your answers, even after all the filing, but... you are outside Weisshaupt, and I just don't see you ever going back.”

Hawke scowled, and started walking again. “I hadn’t even thought about taking off.” Carver’s noise of surprise wasn’t flattering. “I don’t always run first,” she tried.

“Bullshit, Sis. I’ve been hearing the rumors. Word is that you and Rainier, and you and Stroud have yourself an ‘arrangement’. Is that worth sticking around for?”

“The rumors are wrong,” her voice broke. “It’s… complicated, yes. But I’m not involved with either of them, Carver Hawke. Mind your own business. We’re friends, and not that kind of friends.”

“Stroud adores you. He‘s a nice guy… I don't know Rainier, but he seems...”

“Piss off,” Hawke’s voice broke again. “I know, Carver. But… it’s not mutual. I don’t feel that way.”

Carver sniffed. “It’s still Vael, huh? Do all Amell women have such poor taste in men?”

“Fuck you.”

They reached the slower moving mages at the next landing and Hawke took control, “All right, we need to get down this mountain. Faster, people. Carver, you take point. I’m rear guard. Move, move, move!”

The moment for confessions passed, much to her considerable relief.

Not far below was the next landing, and a single griffon landed, with Thom smirking from its back. “We’re going to ferry you down. Caronel’s already got Valya with him…”

“I thought they couldn’t support…”

“Valya says we’ll have to risk it. It’s a short flight.”

Hawke faced her charges. “So… what do you lot fear more, darkspawn or heights?” A mage instantly walked towards the griffon, which graciously allowed him to climb on. Thom flew off, laughing with delight, and another griffon swiftly took his place. “Next?” the rider asked.

And Hawke waved the next mage forward, this one far less eager. "Your ride, Enchanter. And be quick about it."

 


	19. Fly Away Home

Carver’s griffon flew away with him, the elf in front of him grinning as the heavier warrior fought to stay on, cursing the slightly too small animal.

“You’re next, milady,” Thom was holding out his hand, offering to haul her up, and Hawke stared back, grinning away her sudden trepidation. She grasped his hand, and let him pull her aboard. “Alright, let’s go.” Her voice shook a little. “Take me for a ride, Warden.”

“I’d say that was a sign of trust,” he chuckled, and then, with a deft direction of pressed knees, they dropped off the edge of the switchbacks. “I’m still new to this!” He yelled.

The fall was a dizzy whirlwind as the griffon built up speed and then, with a mighty downdraft of beating wings, pulled them upright. Hawke realized Blackwall was laughing in delight again, his full-throated amusement floating back to reach her and she relaxed, and abandoned herself to the moment.

Flying was… unlike anything. Exhilarating, freeing - she felt like she could outfly her very past, on the back of a griffon. Perhaps that’s why so many of the Wardens were obsessed with the creatures. She leaned out a bit to see better. “Don’t lean!” Thom yelled, “I can’t steer him if you change the balance! It‘s a challenge riding two up!”

Hawke straightened, and hid her face against his back, her eyes watering against the too cold air, “Sorry!”

“Huge learning curve, is all,” she felt rather than heard her friend’s words. “This is… this is bloody brilliant!” The griffon banked and soared up and then down again, Thom testing out his maneuverability - and maybe, just maybe, to give her a bit of a thrill. “Wish I could take out some darkspawn with him,” she felt him sigh. “Next time. You’re my mission right now, milady.”

They flew for a few more minutes before they landed near a cave, the flock of griffons grooming each other and their new handlers enthusiastically. A few of the wardens were tying fallen feathers into their hair, or binding them around their arms with a look of wonder on their faces. Would it be a flock or a litter? Hawke mused dizzily, as the shock of the landing jarred her teeth.

“Sorry,” grunted Thom. “We’re going to have to work on the ground part.”

“That was…” she marveled, getting her bearings again.

“I know, right?” He laughed. “Never felt anything like it. I could fly forever, if he‘d let me.”

Valya tore herself away from Caronel’s mount to make it over to them, her face tormented. “The Chamberlain,” Valya protested. “Can you fly back and get the prisoners?”

Thom shook his head, “We’re out of time,” he turned and faced the mountain now, Stroud approaching with his own griffon pecking at the sides of the Moustache as he winced at the pulled hair. “Only guys still in there are the sapper team. It should be just about any…”

An explosion rocked the ground beneath them, and Hawke stumbled. She wasn’t the only one. “Shit.”

The rumbling increased beneath them, and the group staggered away from the cliff just above them as a few small pebbles fell from above. “Into the open,” Stroud ordered. “Unless the ground cracks, we’ll be safer there.”

They followed him back, as more muffled booms and the smaller percussions made some of the switchbacks they had been on just a short while ago break away in massive sections.

“Sacre Coeur de l’Andraste,” Stroud murmured. “The Maker be with those brave dwarves.”

It took a long time for the silence to regain, aftershocks rippling through them as the day slowly turned into night. “I’m going to go check it out,” Thom told Stroud gruffly, after the quiet had lasted for a few hours. “We’ve got to know how bad it is. And we need to get the sappers, if there‘s any left.”

Stroud nodded his silent acceptance, and Thom mounted the griffon, who made ready to spring into the air, cawing slightly. “We’ll start walking back,” Stroud announced, as the other riders went to mount their own animals. Several of the mages groaned, including Berrith. “You have the freedom not to return,” he instructed solemnly. “You are not prisoners. Not here. Not ever.”

Valya wrapped her arms around herself but stepped forward, “I want to become a Warden,“ she announced. “As soon as possible.“

Caronel cursed, “No, you don’t. I’ve told you the risks, you don’t…“

“You don’t get to make my decisions for me,“ she told him. “You aren’t my brother, or father, Caro.“

He fumed at her silently, and then grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in to kiss her.

Hawke smirked. “I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist,“ she murmured to Stroud. “Show a man a little spark… and he’s putty in your hands. Works every time.”

“How could he? A magic woman… they are irresistible,” he laughed, bowing slightly. “I take it the sparks are literal?”

“Largely,” Hawke agreed. They were silent, watching the black dot that was Thom wing his way back to the battlements. “Do you think maybe the Chamberlain might have…” she started.

Stroud shook his head, “No, he is gone. As is the First Warden, Maker take him to his side. The sappers could not place the explosives to be effective in any other way,” he looked up at the sky. “The best we can do is rebuild, find their bodies and give them a decent pyre. I‘ll ask for a volunteer to go to Nevarra and ask for Wardens to come back and help. Orlais… Orlais has it‘s own reconstruction to handle, I‘m afraid. But perhaps Ferelden or the Free Marches can assist…”

“I’ll go to Nevarra,” Caronel stepped forward, with Valya‘s hand in his own. The other mage looked a little dazed. “After Valya’s Joining, if she insists upon going through it. I can take Hawke - or someone else - that far. Someone should… someone should let people know that Weisshaupt has fallen.” He glanced behind him at the largely intact exterior of the fortress. “Sort of? And probably not the First Warden. Not right away, anyway.”

Carver spoke, “The College of Enchanters is in Nevarra. They should be informed. And the Chantry… the Divine…”

“I’m not going anywhere near either one,” Hawke argued instantly as several trusting eyes landed on her. “I don’t bloody care about the Chantry - Divine Leliana set me up in Kirkwall…”

“The Inquisition should know as well,” Stroud’s eyes were thoughtful, and all the eyes turned to her again. “The Viscount of Kirkwall is a fine correspondent for the Inquisitor, Hawke…” the Moustache twitched.

“Oh no,” Hawke folded her arms, “What if I don’t want to toddle home like a good girl? What‘s left for me in Kirkwall? Besides Varric,” she corrected instantly. “He’s got… other considerations.”

“I could go to the College, instead of Joining right away,” Valya murmured reluctantly. “I’d rather not return to the Circle…”

“Of course you don’t,” Caronel’s hand tightened, his knuckles white. “The Circle is gone.”

“I’ll make my own way,” Hawke announced suddenly. “Just give me a map and I’ll…”

“Sis, where are you going?” Carver asked, his forehead wrinkling.

“I’m not accountable to you.”

“Sister…”

“Drop it.” Hawke stalked off in the other direction, hands clenched into fists, and then folding her arms across her chest.

Stroud followed her a few minutes later, “Marian…”

“I’m not going to Nevarra, Jean-Marc. There‘s nothing for me there.”

“I gathered that,” his dry humor warmed her, and she shivered. “May I ask?”

“I’m going home.”

“You’re going to him.” Hawke didn’t deny it. “You realize he’s not worthy…”

“Oh, things like that go both ways,” Hawke waved her hand in dismissal. “Six of one, Half dozen of another. Prince of Jerks, Champion of Asses. It all balances out.”

He grabbed her shoulder, “He still loves you. He has to. But he hasn’t come begging your forgiveness, he’s done bloody nothing but hurt people you care about.”

“And I’m going to make him pay for that,” Hawke shrugged off his hand, but Stroud replaced it.

“You deserve something more, my friend,” he urged her quietly. “Someone who will pursue you, not just sit on a bloody throne and plot…”

“Like you?” Hawke turned to him. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Stroud chuckled, “Marian, I am your friend. You don’t love me. I have… accepted that. But more than that - I have a duty. A duty that will demand my life at some point. I cannot offer what you deserve. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.”

Hawke failed to ask the obvious question. “Jean-Marc, I’ve long since stopped looking for any mythical happy ending. Isn’t that obvious?”

“I wish I could offer it, all the same.” He drew closer, and rested his scarred hands on her hips. “You are a storm, and I would chase you, if I could risk getting caught in you.” He raised his head and looked in her eyes. She could see her own reflection in them, distorted by the campfire behind them. “If I could, I would hold you forever.”

Hawke cleared her throat. “You should go.” He nodded, and dropped his hands. Hawke reached out and grabbed his arm. “Jean-Marc…” he turned back, and she reached up to kiss him.

His arms were around her again in a minute. A kiss goodbye, when they had never really said hello at all. He treated her - as if she was something fragile, and she knew in that minute that it would never work, but she followed it through, gently, until he pulled away first.

She had no defense except that it was a really good kiss. Despite the Moustache.

“You are… incomparable.”

And she snorted bluntly, “And that is why we will never work, Jean-Marc. You… you still see me as something unique. The Champion of Kirkwall. Mage beyond compare.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” The Moustache quirked up on one side. “To be thought incomparable?”

“Yes,” Hawke smiled. “Because in the end, I’m just a woman. One who can light your ass on fire,” she amended. “Some women can knit. I start office fires because I‘m bored.”

He laughed, and shook his head, “I wish you safe roads and fast travel, my friend.”

“Anything that gets in my way will regret it,” Hawke rejoined cheerfully. “Including the Prince of Starkhaven.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he laughed full out, a little raspy. “I won’t tell you to be safe, then, because I hope you light that asshole’s balls up so that I can see them glow from here.”

Hawke laughed out loud and stepped back from him. “You take care, Jean-Marc.”

“Not in the job description, Marian.” She closed her eyes in grief, and nodded her acceptance of that. “Then… make it a good one, all right?”

“That I will try to do.”

<LLR>

“You’re leaving, are you?” Thom had returned late in the night, and while he confirmed that Weisshaupt was, at least, passable, he also was covered in a thick layer of coated dust, and confessed that the surviving sappers - most of them had made it - were sleeping on the battlements. Most of them had elected to stay put, rather than risk the flight of an overtired griffon.

“That’s right,” Hawke had retrieved many of the rations from the other mages. She had brought everything she had - which wasn’t much, but she would pick up clothing as she passed through settlements and cities, on her way to… she shivered a little. It was hard to admit, even to herself.

“Are you going to say good-bye to your brother?”

“Why would I? He told me I was going yesterday, put the fucking idea in my head,” she bantered with a broken smile. “Apparently, my signature move is running, Rainier. I would hate to break a streak.” She swallowed, “Don’t worry, I won’t advertise Weisshaupt’s weaknesses. Or it’s strengths. I can keep my mouth shut.” Thom’s griffon had snuck up behind him to nudge him between the shoulder blades, cawing softly for attention.

“All right, then, milady. No point in telling you to be careful. You’re not the sort.”

“Trouble finds me,” she agreed, lowly. “Thom… it was really fun.”

“Ah, so you’re going to Starkhaven then.” He didn’t seem surprised. “Tell the bastard that the woman he loves is the best piece of ass I‘ve…”

Hawke laughed and spun on him, hugging him tight. “Shut up, Rainier. Before you say something I‘ll make you regret,” she threatened.

“Keeping my mouth shut is one of my strengths, but not yours,” he chuckled. “Go on then. Get out of here. Three days south-southeast will bring you to a village.”

Hawke shouldered her pack. “Be seeing you, Warden.”

“I doubt that, milady. Safe travels.” He raised his hand, she picked up her staff, and walked away, and out of his life.

She resisted looking back, knowing that if she did, that a man would be watching her from the cave’s entrance. Maybe even two. Three, if her brother counted.

Too much of a burden to risk knowing about. This way, she could pretend none of them cared.

Her pack was full of supplies, and she… she would manage. On her own, again. She had been here before.

<LLR>

She walked for three days, just like Thom said, before getting to a small town after noon on the third day. It had an inn, and she entered it slowly, swinging her pack up on the wide bar.

A letter fell out of her pack as she rooted for her long unneeded coin purse, and then another, fluttering softly to the floor in a spread out mess. “Shit,” she muttered, and bent down to retrieve them before the floor‘s questionable stains could spread.

“Can I help you?” The innkeeper made his way over.

“I’d like a room, and a bath,” Hawke sighed, and froze at the letters. One was Varric’s last, informing her about his relationship with the Seeker, but the other… she didn’t recognize the hand, still folded up into a neat triangle. Who had… “And about a vat of whatever alcohol you make in these parts.”

The innkeeper beamed, “To your room, then?”

“Please,” Hawke breathed in relief that she wouldn’t have to get this drunk in public. She had to fall apart, and soon.

She was overdue for a long cry.

The Anders’ Moonshine was harsh, and did the trick all too quickly, the jug the man had delivered uncorking far too easily. She unfolded the letter after she finished the first stein, and choked.

It was from Thom. “You bastard,” she muttered, and a single tear slipped out. “How dare you.”

Hawke,

I’m a simple man, and had I met you before I committed my crime, or even after, but before I joined the real Warden Blackwall, I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t have fought for you. I wanted you to know that. A man should battle to be by your side.

But it’s not my place to fight for you. It’s your place. You’ve lost yourself, Marian. I know something about that. Bad situations combined with piss-poor choices - Maker’s Balls, you’ve done more with your life than anyone could have, given what you were given. I’ve a world of respect for you.

But you’ve lost your fire. Find it again, not for me, Hawke, but for yourself. I hate to say it, since Carver’s a real tit, but you ought to quit running. When you get where you’re headed - and I think we both know you’re headed to Starkhaven, to confront your fucking Prince of assholes - stay where you want to be. If it’s there, in his pretentious white palace, then so be it. You’ll never hear a word of criticism from me. If it’s in Kirkwall, playing cards with Varric, all the better. But be where you want to be, not where you think you need to go.

I’m glad you’re taking off before everyone else, and not dancing to the Wardens’ tune. You’ve done enough, Hawke. For once, pursue your own happiness, not your mother’s, or your brother’s, or Varric’s. Don’t fight to pay for your own mistakes and everyone else’s - fight because, damn it, you deserve joy in your life.

I wish I could have provided that for you. But we Wardens - we don’t live long enough to give that kind of happiness.

No fear, you won’t get another maudlin letter from me. Unrequited love letters aren’t my style at all. I’d rather show a lady how much I like her by showing her a good time. We had some good ones together, Hawke. And I hate it all turned out like this. I wish I had more to offer, and less weight hanging over my head, waiting to snap the ropes and come slamming down. But the war I fight now never ends.

I’ll see you around, Champion. I hope. If not, remember,

Thom Rainier

Halfway through, she wasn’t sure if she was crying or laughing, but by the end, she was sobbing, weeping bitterly over the parchment. She balled it up and threw it towards the hearth, missing the fire entirely. “Why, fucking WHY?”

She spent the rest of the night staring into the fire, and cursing Wardens of all sizes.

The next morning, she opened Varric’s letter and reread it for comfort, with blurry eyes and a pounding head and a churning stomach. “Fucking Prince of Starkhaven,” she muttered, and winced at the sound of her own head. She glanced at the balled up ’Dear John’ letter on the floor by the cold hearth. “All right, Hero, I guess… I guess you’re right. I do know where I’m going. I’m going to get revenge.” She stood, shaking with the aftereffects of the moonshine, and laughed at the pain the bell sent ringing through her reverberating head. “That… that will make me happy.”

She stumbled over to the balled up wad, to smooth out the paper, undecided whether to keep it. The door opened, and the day maid slipped in, with breakfast and fire materials, and relaid the fire slowly. Hawke watched her movements, and then, “Don’t worry about lighting it,” she flared the magic in her palm, showing her. “I’ll take care of it.”

The maid scurried out, eyes wide, as quickly as she could manage, and Hawke shot a single fireball into the hearth, sick to death of the fear she inspired. She stared at the flames again - her curse and her gift. “So you can’t hold me because you can’t risk catching fire, Stroud?” She stared upwards, and tried not to cry. “But Thom can write me a chicken shit note of a letter, saying that I deserve good things.” She snorted, and went to sip directly out of the jug, in an attempt to cure her hangover. “Well, maybe I do, my friend. Maybe I do.” She laid Thom’s letter in the flames, until it caught. “And it wouldn’t have worked. I know. Not with either of you. But… you’re both better than I deserved, for all our combined sins.” The letter flared up, and dissolved into ashes. “Bastards,” she said fondly, “You‘d better hope I never see you again, or I‘ll break both your noses this time.”

Two days later, still hungover, she made her way to the innkeeper, coughing slightly to get his attention. “Ser Hawke! Will you be checking out?” He seemed eager. What the fuck did a simple Anders innkeeper have to be so fucking happy about?

Maybe he really loved his job?

“I am,” she hesitated, but sighed, resigned, “Is there a place I could buy a horse? I’ve a long way to go.”

Three hours later, supplies bought surprisingly cheaply from the cheerful landlord, two jugs of the local moonshine hanging from her saddle, and a horse - one that had seen better days but helped stretch her gold - underneath her, Hawke steered herself towards the East of the Anderfels, refusing to look back. “Several weeks to Starkhaven,” she told the horse. “And from there… Kirkwall,” she smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ve got some time to figure out a plan, then, don’t we? Because I think fireballs are in order, don’t you, Horse? What should I aim for… his belt is always a safe choice.”

The horse trotted on, ignoring her voice. “Least I sent the letter to Varric,” she sniffed in the direction of the placid beast‘s ears. They flicked, as if it was listening, at least partially. “That way he won’t worry about me. Much.”

With that, the Champion of Kirkwall rode off, cursing the rising sun - it hurt her head in the worst fucking way - towards the only ’good things’ that she could focus on: Her revenge, her best friend, and a city that still claimed her.

One thing she knew - she wasn’t going anywhere fucking near the Exalted Council. If that went bad, she needed to be somewhere… unpredictable. She reined in the horse, thinking. She could go through Tevinter, and across the Minater River. It was a fairly direct route, but it would mean slipping away from Varric’s bolt holes and contacts, and his supply caches, and the comfort that regular letters from him provided…

But maybe it was better, to strike out fully on her own. He was starting a new life with someone. She didn’t want to fuck that up for him. She fucked a lot of things up.

Maybe once the revenge part was ticked off her list, she could do something about that. A woman her age should maybe have a bit more happiness laid up already, and a few less major mistakes under her belt.

She couldn't change the mistakes, but...

She rode, her mind muddy with a combination of memories and wistful thinking, wondering if it was too late to change her life for the better. Whether it was possible to tip the balance from darkness in her life to something a little brighter. Gather up a few happy moments instead of the sort that haunted her dreams.

And in her head, she heard Varric’s voice, ringing, “How many you got, Hawke?”

“Nowhere near enough, Varric,” she snorted aloud, and the horse walked a little faster with surprise. “Not nearly enough. But give me time, will you?

"I'm working on it. Promise."

Continued in 'Demands of the Champion'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to Mykki for asking if I was going to cover this! :D
> 
> And now Hawke is the main character in the happiest thing I have ever written, and the saddest as well. Trying not to give her a happy ending here was excruciating. All three characters wanted it so badly.
> 
> And for those of you who are interested - the sequel was actually finished before this fic was even dreamed of. It's called 'The Demands of the Champion'. There are fireballs. And belts.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I have the best readers, I swear. You all inspire me, in the best ways. Like a chorus of little muses.


End file.
